


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

by powmeow



Series: Logical Fallacies [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Alien Cultural Differences, Canon Het Relationship, F/M, First Time, Inspired by Poetry, Interspecies Relationship(s), Original Character(s), Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Starfleet Academy, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vulcans Being Illogical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8436673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powmeow/pseuds/powmeow
Summary: Commander Spock and Cadet Uhura begin a tentative relationship and face unforeseen complications. A Vulcan priest meets a human woman on a humid afternoon in Nairobi. Ambassador Sarek meets a woman on an elevator with an illogical penchant for whistling. (Interspecies relationships are never easy.)





	1. somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to tomfooleryprime for helping me organize my thoughts on this. This is a little different from my last fic, and there's a lot of OC content, but I promise it all comes together in the end. Just bear with me!

Until this night, Spock had never spent quite so much time in front of the mirror, examining his reflection and wondering if his attire was adequate.

It had been exactly one week, two days, one hour and forty-seven minutes since Nyota Uhura had kissed Spock on the lips in the darkening academic quad and bade him, in a soft voice, to call her “Nyota”. The half-Vulcan commander’s perfect memory allowed him to recall, with certain accuracy, the way his heart had stirred in response to the sound. He found it quite pleasant—the syllables of her name danced over his tongue in a neat way that he could repeat tirelessly. The _Ny_ stretched his mouth close to a smile, the _o_ parted his lips just so, and the tap of his tongue against the roof of his mouth at _ta_ with a slight exhale spread warmth across his chest.

Afterwards they took a long walk until night swathed the campus and the streetlights blinked on all at once, casting deep shadows along the tree-lined paths that connected its buildings.

A few steps from her dormitory, Nyota stopped walking and turned to Spock. “I’m going to have to be clear with you, aren’t I?”

“Regarding?”

“Everything.” She paused and reached hand up to press against his cheek. “I would like to keep seeing you, Commander.”

“You may call me by my given name.”

“Spock.” There was something different about hearing the word tumble from her mouth alone, unaccompanied by its title. He liked the way her lips sprung open as she transitioned from the _p_ to the _ck_. It invited him to close the space with his own lips, which he did, reasoning that their interaction on the bench less than an hour ago had made it apparent that such an advance would not be unwelcome. Her hand slipped from his cheek to the back of his neck as she pressed against his chest. He gripped the red fabric on her shoulders with uncertainty. Later, he would need to consider more seriously where would be the most appropriate placement of his hands during such exchanges.

Nyota pulled away from him, pushing against his chest to create distance between their bodies. Spock blinked, began calculating an apology for his assumption that this would now be an appropriate action. She was, to his surprise, laughing.

“Wait, wait,” she said through a chuckle. “We’re talking now. We can do more of this later—and trust me, I would like to do a _lot_ more of this.”

“I would not be averse to that.”

She laughed again, nervously this time, dropping her gaze. “Certainly not.” She took his fingers in hers, lacing them together between them. “Do you know what it means, though?”

“It is a precursor to more intimate relations, and is used as an expression of desire for—”

“No, Spock.” Nyota squeezed his hands. “I mean between us.”

Spock took a pause for this. “I am not opposed to intimacy.”

“Not just physically.”

“I am aware.”

They stared at each other for a long time, before Nyota said, “I would like things to change between us.”

Spock found the sleek rope of her ponytail and tugged it over her shoulder. It curved around her neck and fell against her breast. Her eyes flickered down to follow his fingers. “I understand that a change will occur,” he said slowly. “Though I do not have the adequate experience to ascertain what exactly that change will entail. I was… expecting that you would lead this progression.”

She smiled and nodded, rising to her toes to place a light peck on his lips. “Let’s meet again tomorrow, then. I only have a couple of weeks of recess before summer classes start, and I think I’d like to spend a decent amount of it with you.”

He nodded, finding himself suddenly reluctant to part from her. “I would like that as well.”

Spock walked home alone, relieved to be spared the difficulty of articulating his feelings, which he hardly understood himself. “Feelings” were not his expertise. Nyota understood this. In the following week they spent some time each day in each other’s company, and she never once asked him to say out loud everything he implied that night. This, among her many favorable qualities, he appreciated deeply.

The next day they went out for dinner, but on Friday Nyota had promised to spend with Gaila before she went off-world for her summer holiday. That weekend, she took Spock to the San Francisco Botanical Garden, which he had still neglected to visit. They spent Sunday afternoon competing as to who could more expediently recall the scientific names of the plants they encountered on their stroll. Spock won, of course, but Nyota did not seem to mind.

Spock spent Monday in meetings with the soon-to-be senior staff of the _Enterprise_ , but on Tuesday they shared lunch. On Wednesday, Spock took her to his favorite antique bookstore, and reveled in her bright expression as she explored its shelves.

It wasn’t until Thursday that Spock recognized the mildly dissatisfied way she was staring at him over the table at lunch, as though he were an equation she was having trouble solving. He set down his knife and fork.

“May I ask what troubles you?”

Nyota bit her lip in response.

Spock looked down at the spread of vegetables on his plate. “Are you displeased with our continuing acquaintance? Do you not find it adequate?”

She tilted her head and put down her own utensils. “Well… I mean, displeased would be going a little too far. I really like being friends with you.”

Spock waited, sensing that this statement would be followed by an adversative conjunction.

“… but I would like to be more than friends.”

Spock, who had just spent an entire semester analyzing and interpreting the meaning of “friendship” with Nyota, could not even begin to understand what she was attempting to convey. “I do not know what that means,” he admitted.

“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m troubled.”

“I do not wish to be the source of your troubles.” Spock knew next to nothing about how their relationship would proceed, but he knew that his reasons for exploring it was to seek out a state of mutual satisfaction in each other’s company. In that respect, he seemed to be failing, despite his efforts to make their time together enjoyable. He had been too complacent in the pleasure of simply being with her, to consider that her expectations may differ.

“I know. I’m not sure what I was expecting myself. I feel like I’m always going out of my way to impress you, and I don’t know…” she shook her head and looked down. “You seem a bit… indifferent. But of course, I know it’s the Vulcan way. I’m sorry. I’m being silly.”

“What would you like, Nyota?” Spock disliked the expression on her face. He leaned forward, trying with difficulty to dissect its meaning. “Tell me, and I will adjust my behavior.”

Her face changed. Spock suppressed a rush of relief as a smile crept onto her lips. Her eyelids became just a touch heavier, and her eyebrows shot up at a moderate angle. He had deduced, from the occasions he had seen it light up her face, that this expression indicated affection. “Let’s go on a date.”

“Date?” Spock tilted his head slightly. He had thought, given what he knew of human courtship (he had done extensive reading on its practices in the past week) that the activities they engaged in alone together, such as eating meals and visiting attractions, qualified as “dates”.

She seemed to sense his confusion because she went on. “Gaila had tickets to a play that some cadet wanted to take her to. She’s already off-planet, so she gave them to me. Let’s go together. Look nice. I know it’s not logical. But just… try.”

Spock did not know how to explain to her that he had already been trying, with concentrated effort. He had spent considerable time picking the places they would eat, arranging outings that he thought might please her most. Still, if his efforts could not convey his regard, they must be somehow deficient.

“I will… try.”

And so, he stood scrutinizing his reflection fifteen minutes prior to their scheduled meeting time. He had, in preparation, been sure to be as clean cut as he would for a Starfleet formal event. He chose a shirt that was dark blue, because he recalled a day when he had worn a sweater in a similar color and Nyota had complimented him for his choice. He polished his shoes carefully, clipped his fingernails neatly, applied balm on his hands so that they would be soft to touch. He left his quarters only when he could not conceive any possible way to improve his appearance.

Nyota was standing on the landing in front of her building when he arrived. When she saw him approaching down the path, she descended the small stone staircase to meet him. She was wearing a short, densely pleated green dress that swayed around her knees as she walked. Spock stopped short of the stairs to watch her, the way her sleek hair bobbed and tumbled over her bare shoulders with each step.

“… Hi.” she said when she got to the bottom and he failed to greet her.

“Let us proceed.” Spock looked away and began walking. Nyota hovered unsurely behind him for a moment before following.

As they approached the entrance to the underground transport, Nyota’s voice called out from behind him “Spock, wait!” He turned to find her several paces behind him. He waited for her to catch up.

“Can you slow down? It’s hard to walk in these.” She pointed to her feet, gloved in high heeled shoes.

“That is very illogical footwear.”

Nyota looked embarrassed, tucking her hands behind her back and looking down. “They look nice, though.”

“They are unnecessary. You would look nice without them.”

She toyed with the tip of one strand of hair. “I suppose.”

“I will slow my pace.”

They walked side by side into the station and waited in silence for the train. Spock felt the back of Nyota’s hand brush his briefly. The touch made his skin thrum, like a bow streaking across a violin string. He quickly pulled away and clasped his hands behind his back. When he looked at Nyota, she was staring at the floor, her fingers looped together at her stomach. He wondered momentarily if pulling away so quickly might have mistakenly conveyed aversion. Before he could say anything of it, the train swept into the platform before them.

In the entry line, they stood nearly an arms length apart. Their conversation was brief and stilted. Nyota looked uncomfortable, bordering on upset, and this made Spock uncomfortable and unsure about what to say—whether it was his words, or actions, or something else that was upsetting her. It would be logical to simply ask, but something in their conversation the day before had implied that he should already know. He wasn’t sure if admitting his ignorance would upset her further. He found that he was increasingly more concerned with not upsetting her than pleasing her, which seemed to be a progression in the opposite direction. Perhaps he should have chosen a different shirt.

During the first two acts of the play, Spock was aware that her head leaned into his shoulder slightly, and her arm pressed against his on the armrest between them. Spock adjusted himself to sit very tightly in his seat, his elbows resting cautiously on his knees, in order to give her more space.

During the intermission he turned to see her sitting with her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach.

“Are you cold?” he asked. He himself found the room slightly cooler than he would prefer, but he assumed that was due to his acclimation to Vulcan climate.

“No.” She shook her head and stood up. “Listen, I’m not really feeling this. I think I would like to go home.”

“You do not wish to know what befalls the characters in the second half?”

“I’ll look it up later.”

Spock frowned. “Shall I accompany you home?”

“I can go alone, if you want to stay and watch the rest.”

Spock looked at the heavy curtains that hung over the stage. He had no particular interest in the play. The characters all acted in an unfathomably illogical manner that he found rather unsightly. And he did not want to part with her yet—not when she was so clearly displeased, not until he asked her what he had done wrong, from what seemed like the very beginning of this purported “date”.

Nyota did not sit next to him on the train, instead choosing a seat across the aisle. She kept her eyes fixed on her knees the entire ride. The train was packed with loud cadets and civilians alike, all on their way to some Friday night amusement or another. Spock could not speak to her properly while they were so far, separated by the din of other passengers.

Her stride was sharp, her impractical shoes making loud sounds against the pavement as she walked.

“Nyota,” Spock entreated. “You are unhappy.”

She shrugged and quickened her pace. He lengthened his stride to keep up. As she climbed up the stairs to her building with equal ferocity, the heel on her left shoe snapped, and she went tumbling sideways.

Spock lunged forward and caught her before she could land painfully on the stone.

“ _Fuck_.” She said through gritted teeth. “This is just typical.” She turned to sit on the stair she had fallen on, studied her foot. It was already beginning to swell.

Spock took her ankle in his hands, examining the sprain as she tore off the other shoe. “It is just a minor twist. Easily repaired at the infirmary.” He felt a finger trace the tip of his ear. It sent an odd shiver reverberating through his spine. He looked up.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at myself. Everything I understand about starting a relationship feels wrong. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever been with. I really want to do it right, but I don’t know how.”

Spock stared at her ankle, slim and slender in his large hand, feeling woefully inadequate as he said, “You are also unlike anyone I have ever been with, because you are the only one I have ever been with.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Pressure?” He gently slid her shoe off and placed it on the stairs next to its match.

“To make it good. To make it worthwhile.”

Spock was unsure when his hand had wandered, but as he looked back at her leg, he found that it was resting on the inside of her calf. The hem of her dress fluttered over his knuckles in the light breeze. “I find that simply being in your company is worthwhile.”

“Then why don’t you ever touch me?”

Spock wanted to contradict her, since he was, at present, touching her. Yet something about her soft, almost whispered statement made her meaning clear. He looked up once more. Nyota was leaning back on her hands, one cheek resting on her shoulder as she stared at her discarded shoes. “Nevermind,” she said, standing up and hooking her fingers into their straps. She attempted to limp towards her dormitory entrance.

Spock stood and grasped her arm to steady her. “Let me assist you.”

Nyota looked at her shoes, her toes, and Spock as though considering her options. Finally, she shrugged. “Fine.”

Spock knelt down in front of her and waited.

“What are you doing?”

“It would be more expedient if I carried you.”

A pause stretched out behind him. He continued to stare at the glare of the doors, wondering if he should stand up and explain to her how he intended to carry her (perhaps she was confused), when he felt her arms slide around his neck. He grasped her thighs, the soft skin giving under his fingers as he stood. When they reached the door Spock bent forward so she could tap her ID card. This pulled a laugh from her, ringing pleasantly in his ear.

“This is ridiculous,” she said as they made their way down the hallway.

“It is not ideal.”

“Am I heavy?”

“I am much stronger than the average human.” Spock felt the corners of his lips tug at the second laugh that followed.

“Should I get down?” she asked as they got in the lift together.

“That will be unnecessary.”

“Okay.” She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. The cool metal of her earring and her warm breath left contrasting sensations on his neck.

“Nyota… you are mistaken in believing that I do not wish to be close to you. To… touch you.”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. As the lift reached her floor and Spock stepped out into the eerily quiet hallway, cleared for the summer holidays, she whispered, “You always pull away.”

Spock set her down when they reached her door. “Vulcans do not practice such displays of intimacy. Our way is much more private.”

“I think I knew that already. But it still feels…” she shrugged. “Like you’re rejecting me.” She looked away and tapped her ID card. The door slid open and Spock followed her inside. “Lights.”

He had never been in her quarters before. One side of the room was stripped and empty, which he assumed must belong to her absent roommate. Nyota’s side was neat, with little shreds of evidence that made it uniquely hers—her PADD charging on the shelf by her unmade bed, next to the small stack of books she had purchased from the antique store they visited that week; the boots she wore with her uniform discarded on the floor; an empty coffee cup stained dark with the remnants of her breakfast; the collection of earrings hooked neatly onto a many pronged silver tree in one of the storage hexes on the wall.

“Nyota.”

She dropped her shoes to the ground and turned towards him, leaning her shoulder against the frosted glass divider in her entry.

Spock held out two fingers between them and reached for her arm, pulling it by the elbow to close the space between them. “Like this.” She curled her second two fingers into her palm. Their fingertips touched, the place where they made contact turning warm under the gentle pressure. “If you wish to convey affection, simply hold out your two fingers like so, and I will touch them with mine as a reciprocal gesture.”

“How simple.” She smiled, moved her fingers along his and curled them together. It sent a tremor up his arm. She grasped him firmly and tugged until he took a step forward. “And when we are alone? What do Vulcans do in private?”

“I…” Spock was surprised at the low tone of his voice. It sounded unfamiliar in his own ears. “I do not know.”

He noticed the flash of pink that darted out as she licked her lips, saw keenly the wet glimmer as they emerged from her mouth freshly moistened. “What would you like to do?”

For a moment, Spock could not move as he realized that he was caught in a lie. A lie even to himself. While it was true, Vulcans did _not_ practice overt displays of affection in public, that was not why he pulled away from her each time she reached for him, chose not to look at the stretch of her legs in those impractical shoes, the shadows on her sternum as it dipped between her breasts, the way the pleated dress followed the curves of her hips when she walked. His pulse quickened at an alarming rate. He rested his forehead against hers.

“I do not know,” he repeated in a harsh whisper. Another lie.

Nyota tilted her chin up so that their lips met, and the taste threatened to unhinge some part of his mind. He tugged at her lips until they parted, letting him run his tongue along hers, trace the smooth ridges of her teeth. The force of the kiss tilted her neck back. She rolled over and pressed her back against the partition. He took both her hands in his and locked them on either side of her, his fingers feverish between hers.

Spock’s mind grappled a losing struggle with his body. It had begun some time ago, when he faced Nyota after being permanently severed from T’Pring. An unfamiliar beast, coiled tightly in his chest, suddenly stirred—something that could not be tamed by logic.

He did not know when his breathing had gotten away from him, but soon they were panting. He felt Nyota flinch as her weight shifted to her injured ankle, so he lifted her easily by the hips and held her against the glass, her legs wrapping around his waist in response. His lips left hers and traced her jaw with rapid, wet kisses. He tasted the different parts of her skin: her cheek, the soft flesh under her chin, the warm space behind her ear, the gentle slope of her neck. Her chest rose against his in quick, heavy swells, her hands seeking bare skin under the hem of his shirt. The cold touch of her fingertips sent a jolt through his sides and he pressed his hips more firmly against hers, lifting her further from the ground. Dizzied by the gasp this elicited against his ear, he sank his teeth into the tense muscle on her neck. She yelped.

The sound cut through the blinding roar that pulsed in Spock’s ears. He pulled back, the haze ebbing from his vision. He saw her clearly now, her eyes unfocused and cheeks flushed, the dark, ring-shaped bruise forming on her neck.

He dropped her gently to the ground and turned away, attempting to coax his heart rate down to a reasonable level. “I am sorry.”

He heard a breathy laugh behind him. “No, please… don’t be.”

“I have injured you.”

She laughed again. “It’s really fine. I just wasn’t expecting…” she paused and he felt her small hand press between his shoulder blades. “Any of it.”

Spock could not bring himself to look at her. His body was tense with humiliation, running through the previous several minutes with utmost shame. “I apologize, truly. I will harness myself.”

“No, Spock…”

He moved towards the door before she could stop him, and was in the hallway without another word. He stepped into the night air, wishing for the first time since he moved to Earth, that the night was not so warm.

When he returned home, his communicator buzzed with a transmission.

_We should talk about this, when you’re ready. We’ll take it slow. —N_

Spock had thought this relationship would be more simple, more natural, given how simple and natural being in her company had come to be. But since they had introduced this new level of physicality, Spock found his psyche tangling itself into dense, complex knots. At times he longed for counsel, assistance in sorting his mind, but had no-one to turn to. He was inherently private, and was raised to hide these little chips and stains in his emotional control. He did not feel comfortable breaching the subject with his mother, was still not on speaking terms with his father, and aside from them, he had no other intimate connections outside of Nyota.

He thought about T’Pring, and had a momentary desire to speak to her. Things were always neatly arranged and formal between them. He had not fully appreciated their orderly relationship until now. He knew from his diverse and comprehensive studies of ethics and diplomacy that interspecies relationships were never easy. He had a newfound respect for those who engaged in them, especially before it had become so widely accepted and thoroughly examined—his parents included. He saw his own arrogance in thinking that he and Nyota would be somehow different.

_I will contact you when I am ready. Once more, I must apologize. —S_

Spock was about to begin a meditation session when his computer rang with an oncoming transmission. He wondered who it could be at such a late hour. The ID read as the head of Starfleet Academy’s philosophy department. Spock opened the channel.

“Commander.”

“Commodore.”

“I apologize for contacting you at such an odd time.”

“I was not occupied.”

“I have just heard some alarming news about Commander Samson—while on leave he contracted quite a severe illness, foreign to his human immune system.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“Certainly. While he is expected to make a full recovery, the process will take months. Now I realize that you were to be exempt from your teaching responsibilities given your new appointment as First Officer and Chief Science Officer on the _Enterprise_ —congratulations, by the way—“ Spock gave an appreciative nod. “—however could you find it in your schedule to take over Samson’s _Interspecies Ethics_ course? All other qualified instructors are occupied or away for the summer semester, and since you have taught the course before, I thought it appropriate to ask.”

Spock mulled this over. The class was not a particularly rigorous one, and his familiarity with the content would make preparation time minimal. Finally, he tilted his head forward. “I accept.”

“Thank you, Commander. As always, your service is exemplary. Your dedication will not go unnoticed.”

“Thanks is unnecessary. It is my duty.”

They ended their conversation with polite goodbyes, and Spock was thankful for another responsibility to distract him from his personal conflicts. He would spend the night in meditation, and the weekend preparing for the first _Interspecies Ethics_ class. Routine would reorder his thoughts and then, perhaps, he would be ready to open a rational discourse with Nyota.

When Monday came along, Spock was pulling the syllabus up on the board as the class shuffled in. He turned to survey them for the first time; he did not find adequate time to study the roster on such short notice, as he had more pressing matters to attend to. It would not take him long to learn their names and faces.

Especially when it came to the name and face in the front row, looking up at him with dark, intelligent eyes, painted neatly with black strokes tracing her eyelid and stretching beyond into a slanted wing.

Her lips parted in surprise as their gazes met. He lingered just a second too long on her, could not stop himself from recalling the violet flush and heavy eyelids of her expression when he last saw her, pressed between his body and the frosted glass in her quarters. Her fingers wandered unconsciously to her collar and tugged it up tighter around her neck. He knew without seeing what lay beneath. He swallowed and bade himself to look away. “I am Commander Spock. Welcome to Interspecies Ethics.”

He did not look at her for the remainder of the class, but it was plainly, glaringly evident that they would be facing more unforeseen complications.


	2. any experience,your eyes have their silence:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making a quick detour to the past. We'll be back to our heroes in no time.

Sirak had never in his life seen so much rain. He had travelled the deserts of the Middle East and along the winding coast of the Mediterranean, but he had never seen the sky open itself so completely to the ground below. He was on the second year of his Terran exploration when the air, which had been swollen and heavy for hours, fell around him all of a sudden in a burst of moisture.

Standing under an awning, his robes damp and warm, Sirak considered staying to observe this strange phenomenon. His well-laid travel plans, charting through several populous countries of the world that was now their ally in the newly formed United Federation of Planets, had threatened to be hindered several times before. For a planet so ruled by the motion of its moon and star, their sky carved with cyclical patterns of wind and water, Earth was unpredictable. Thus, Sirak had adjusted his plans to allow slight flexibility, not knowing then that this small compromise would have such a great impact on his journey.

He would not be hindered, Sirak reasoned, by a period of respite in Nairobi. He had been thorough and efficient in his research, and still had over three years remaining in his five-year journey. Moreover, he heard from another Vulcan staying at his hostel that there would soon be a phenomenon worth seeing within transporter range of Nairobi—the Serengeti Migration, which took place only once per Earth year. “The wildlife reservation in that region is impressive,” the travelling xenozoologist from the Vulcan Science Academy informed him over dinner one evening. “Thousands of species, many of which are extinct anywhere else. The variety of carbon-based life here is truly fascinating. I have not yet visited a more diverse planet.”

It was at his suggestion that Sirak planned a visit to Nairobi National Park. He chose a day with lighter clouds, and an hour directly after the forecasted rains had fallen. He declined the humans who suggested tours and guides and transportation, and they were too struck by his sallow skin, slanted eyebrows, and pointed ears to argue when he wandered out alone. The savannah glowed a lush green, and the earth along the wide path was darkened by the fresh rain. The hem of his robe was soon coated with red dust. The city skyline was a grayish outline drifting in the fog that hadn’t quite lifted for days. He saw several four-legged creatures with different odd patterning that he could not identify. He would have to describe them in detail to the zoologist when he saw him next.

He had stopped to observe a herd of sleek brown mammals when he heard, strangely, a voice that was not animal. It hummed a song that he had heard somewhere in the city, woven into its disorderly myriad of sounds. The syllables were in a language he did not know, but could identify by its phonetics as Swahili, the native language of this region.

The car, which he had seen from a distance and assumed to be source of the song, appeared to be empty. Sirak followed the sound to a cluster of trees just off the path. Sitting on a thick, low branch, was a woman with hair as dark as his own and skin the color of the damp earth at his feet. She leaned against the trunk with a book in her lap. She wore a red dress in a light cotton fabric that curled and wrinkled into her knees and spilled over the sides of the branch. Through the corner of her eye, she saw him approach. Her song cut off abruptly and in the silence that followed, their eyes met. He saw her survey him, the way her eyes followed the line of his eyebrow, the straight cut of his hair, and the sharp angle of his ear. It was the same assessment he received from nearly all humans he encountered.

“Vulcan,” she said simply in Standard, shutting her book and swinging her legs over the branch to face him. Her speaking voice was deeper and more severe than her singing voice. “I’ve never seen one up so close.”

“There are few of our kind on your planet. The probability of contact is not high.”

She smiled. “I’m sure you already know what they say—that you’re all like machines. But you seemed to be enjoying my song.”

He tilted his head in acquiescence. “The pitch and tone, and the patterns with which you varied them, formed a pleasant sound.”

“Thank you.” She hopped out of the tree and approached him. “What brings you to our quadrant?”

“I come to observe.”

“How interesting. My father mentioned there was a Vulcan xenozoologist wandering around these parts lately, but I didn’t think I would actually run into you. Though I really thought you’d have some company.”

“You are mistaken. I am not the one you speak of, though I am acquainted with him.”

“ _Two_ Vulcans in Nairobi?” Her eyebrows rose in an arc and her lips quirked to one side. She began walking back towards her car and waved him along with her. He followed. “So if not zoology, what are you observing out here?”

“I am in this particular location merely out of curiosity. My primary field is theology. I am in training to join the priests of Mount Seleya on Vulcan.”

“So what, are you on a conversion mission?”

He shook his head just once, and only slightly. “That is not the Vulcan way. As I already mentioned, I am here to observe. Study human theologies to better understand the heritage of our new allies.”

The woman swung her legs into the open-top car without opening the door. “Get in. I didn’t tell my father that I was borrowing one of the cars, so I should get back before he notices.”

She inserted the activation chip and the car hummed to life with a mechanical inquiry of “Destination?”

“Walking is adequate.”

“It’s going to rain soon.”

Sirak looked up. The sky was indeed beginning to look darker. “The current climate tends towards precipitation often.”

The woman tilted her head forward in a spirited laugh. The sound was very close to a melody. “This isn’t even the rainiest season. Get in!”

Sirak considered the distance he had travelled from the entrance and decided that it would be in his best interest to accept her offer. He nodded and sat beside her.

“Main Research Facility.” She commanded the car before turning her shoulders to face him. She curled her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “How long will you be staying?”

“Undetermined. At the very least, until the Serengeti Migration passes through the nearby region.”

“Oh, good choice. It’s almost that time.”

The wind was pleasant as the car ambled down the path. Sirak watched Inira with fascination. Humans were not a particularly hospitable species. Not hostile, either, but he had never encountered one who approached him with such ease. It piqued his curiosity. “What are you reading? Paper books are rare.”

“ _The Language Instinct._ My third time reading it. It used to belong to my grandfather,” she said, turning over the yellowed volume fondly. “He was a linguist, like me. Both of my parents are zoologists, but they say that language skips a generation in our family.”

“Free will and personal preference cannot be determined by any reliable pattern.”

“True, but that is how it’s always been.”

Sirak considered arguing, but he found that humans had a tendency to cling strongly to their beliefs and feel threatened by opposing views. He changed the subject. “Is language a subject you pursue academically, or professionally?”

“Both. I study at the university, but I also teach children at one of the public schools.”

“Do you specialize in Standard?”

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” She laughed. “Standard, Kiswahili, Classical English, Ancient Latin, Urdu, Hindi, Mandarin, French, Spanish, Andorian, and I’ve been trying to teach myself Vulcan.”

“Impressive.” Sirak raised an eyebrow. He was genuinely surprised at her prolific accomplishments, especially at such a young age, given humans’ inferior memory capabilities. “Though I do not believe Vulcan is a language easily learned independently.”

“It isn’t, but they still don’t teach it at the university. There aren’t any Vulcans that want to live here full time, and there are no humans proficient enough to teach it. At least not in Nairobi.”

“A predicament, indeed.”

A silence passed, filled only by the gentle _whir_ of the car’s engine.

“Listen, I’ll admit I had an ulterior motive in giving you a ride.” Her smile fell and she looked up at him with a new intensity.

“Explain?”

“Will you be… very busy in your stay here?”

“I believe I will be at my leisure.”

“Could you spare some time to help me learn Vulcan? There are nuances to the pronunciations that I find myself struggling with.”

Sirak considered this. He had no clear reason to refuse her. It was true, his stay in Nairobi was unplanned, and therefore without a strict schedule to adhere to. He was not opposed to spending time with this human, who proved to be more pleasant than others of her species, and could certainly find time to do so. Therefore, it was only logical to accept. “I can.”

Inira’s face brightened immediately. Her delight was alarmingly evident, and made him uncomfortable. It was intriguing, how plainly humans expressed their emotions. It was as though they all constantly walked about stark naked.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“I am called Sirak.”

A pause stretched between them before Sirak offered, “I believe it is customary to ask your name in return.”

“Inira.” She smiled wide this time, lining the corners of her mouth with gentle dimples, revealing a row of straight teeth. When she blinked he noticed for the first time the slant of her eyes. They were shaped like a Vulcan species of nut that he was particularly fond of, its skin the same coppery color as her own.

He would soon come to know her as his first human friend.


	3. in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the little hiatus; I was delayed by several different things (including computer repairs). But I've already written the next chapter, and will be adding it very shortly after some editing.

Earth was different every time Sarek visited. It was a fickle planet. When the Embassy transporter room materialized before him, Sarek was greeted with silence. The controls were manned by a young lieutenant.

“The Council sends its regards and apologies,” he said as Sarek stepped off the pad. “They were otherwise occupied this afternoon and could not be here to greet you. They will see you for dinner at 19:30, Earth Standard Time. In the meantime, I will guide you to your lodgings for this stay.” The human hardly met his eyes—he gazed determinedly at some point above Sarek’s shoulder.

He nodded. “Very well.”

He knew well enough that this was meant as a small demonstration of disrespect. He chose to ignore it. The purpose of his trip was to mend Earth-Vulcan relations, not test them. He followed the lieutenant without protesting.

Humans stepped out of their path as they passed through the hallway. Eyes followed him in the high-ceilinged entrance. The few Vulcans he saw were huddled in corners, speaking only amongst themselves in their native tongue. Outside, the stone steps were painted in dark red lettering:

_ DEMONS _

It was the last word remaining in a phrase already mostly erased by the maintenance man crouching over it. The lieutenant crossed the steps swiftly without looking at Sarek. When they crossed the street, Sarek realized this was only one of many scrawls that defaced the Vulcan Embassy. He should have come sooner.

T’Pau’s refusal to join the Federation Council last year was unprecedented, and not taken kindly. It had opened a mistrust for Vulcans amongst the Federation leaders which trickled down to the populace much faster than Sarek anticipated. He and his fellow Ambassadors had been deployed to their respective planets to resolve these conflicts, but he could already see that restoring relations to Earth would be a difficult path. Sarek had been detained by a personal matter, and now he regretted his delay.

“Your schedule has been transmitted to the computer in your quarters,” the lieutenant explained as he handed Sarek his guest card: one that would give him access to his lodging, meals, and the appropriate buildings in the Vulcan Embassy, Starfleet Headquarters, and Starfleet Academy. “If you have any questions or requests, or require a guide for any part of your stay, contact the desk in the lobby.”

He thanked the lieutenant, who left at a hurried pace with the briefest partings. His belongings had already been delivered to his room. He turned on the computer.

_ 15:00: Starfleet Academy Introduction _ . Under it was a map with detailed navigation to the appointed location.

Sarek had just spent the week in meetings at the Vulcan Science Academy, drawing out plans for an exchange program between their departments. Allies from both schools attributed the current unrest to a failing in interspecies education that resulted in fundamental misunderstandings. It was imperative that they open discussion with the relevant departments of Starfleet Academy, in hope of beginning the program in the coming Earth autumn. There were still many details to work out—chaperoning, curriculum, negotiating time and calendar differences. Sarek would not have time to meditate before his next engagement. He changed out of his travel clothes and called the main desk to arrange transport.

When he arrived on campus, he left the transport and continued on foot to the Xenolinguistics department, where the meeting would be held. Groups of cadets seemed to huddle closer to each other as he passed. His sharp ears picked up whispered phrases: “—a Vulcan—” “—what’s he doing—” “—has no right—”.

Sarek turned his attention away from the passerby. There was no purpose in listening to the same sentiments, repeated in different voices everywhere he went. He shifted his focus to more innocuous things—the brilliant shade of blue that Earth’s sky held at this time of year. San Francisco was in a region of Earth that had particularly mild weather at this time of year. The winter fog had lifted and the quad was lined with flowering trees. The grass was a lush, manicured green. There were many reasons why Sarek always held a fondness for this small, watery planet. The first time he visited he could not help but marvel at the variety of colors its cool, moist climate afforded. The Vulcan deserts, while beautiful in their own right, were limited to warm hues. Green was sparse, most common in the blood that ran through their veins, and blue was elusive, found only in rare minerals. The water met the sky in unfathomably large expanses of a color he could never see in a Vulcan landscape. Sarek could sit by the bay for hours at midday, and contemplate the variety of life that teemed below the unassuming surface of the sea.

He was considering when he could fit a visit to the bay in his schedule as he entered the lift. He noticed immediately the strange, piercing sound that filled the small space. A woman was already occupying it. She was not a Starfleet officer—her gray instructor’s uniform indicated no rank. She had dark hair gathered into a neat twist at the back of her head. The noise was coming from her lips, pushed together in an odd gesture. The vibrations formed a song. The human habit of whistling—useless, but widely practiced nonetheless, used both to make music and exclamations that were obsolete in Vulcan nonreactive language. The sound was not pleasant to sharp Vulcan ears. Yet Sarek did not find this woman’s whistle as intolerable. The melody was almost familiar.

The lift shuddered to a halt, the lights flickering off. The orange glow of emergency lights replaced the bright white ones. The woman stopped whistling and looked at Sarek, as though noticing him for the first time. They were standing quite close, and he saw her shift slightly away from him as her eyes wandered his features.

A voice came through the lift’s intercom before either of them could speak. “This lift is experiencing a slight malfunction which will be repaired momentarily. Please standby.”

The woman clasped her hands behind her back and looked at the closed door. “That’s odd.” When Sarek had no reply, she resumed her whistling.

“A strange habit.” Sarek said suddenly, to his own surprise. There was something about the tune that made him curious about her.

She ceased her song and looked at him with wide eyes. “Hm?”

“Whistling. I have never quite understood it.” Sarek reasoned that for a human, conversation would be the correct way to spend the undetermined length of time they would have to spend alone on this elevator.

The woman smiled. It was the first time anyone had smiled at him since his arrival. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t understand it. It usually meant as a response to emotion. For instance, the excitement I felt when I got on the lift. The nervousness I feel now.”

He looked around the dark space. “Do not be concerned about our current situation. I do not believe we are in any foreseeable danger.”

She laughed and the sound echoed off the glass and metal walls. “I’m not nervous about the lift. It’s been having trouble all week.”

Sarek raised an eyebrow with a questioning tilt of the head.

“Well, I’m stuck in a lift with the Vulcan Ambassador.”

Sarek did not know how to respond to this. She didn’t express the same fear he sensed in nearly every other human he came in contact with that day, but she stood before him as an outright representation of the larger challenge he was on Earth to face: how could he reassure her that he was not a threat, but an ally? This small human with her thin wrists and slender neck, like all others of her species, intimidated him with her frailty—both physical and emotional.

“I do not understand your trepidation. Vulcans are a peaceful race.”

“Oh!” The woman raised her hands, as if posing to catch something. “No, no. You misunderstand me.” One hand wandered to her ear and tugged at her earlobe. “I meant… well, I’ve studied your work. It’s impressive.”

“I do not follow your logic.” He paused.

“Right,” she laughed again. Sarek was becoming increasingly confused by both her words and her tendency to express amusement with no clear source. “Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve interacted with a Vulcan, I forgot how much I have to explain. It’s this human thing you’re sure to find illogical—it’s normal for us to feel intimidated by someone whose skills and accomplishments are superior.”

Sarek raised his eyebrows. “Illogical indeed.”

She laughed slightly again. Sarek was beginning to find this woman agreeable. It was refreshing to meet with a human so candid and accommodating, and increasingly rare to find one so friendly. The Starfleet officers he had been corresponding with in the weeks leading up to this trip were cordial, but stiff. They certainly did not laugh so easily.

“You look much younger than I expected,” she tilted her head. “The holovids don’t really do you justice.”

“The Vulcan lifespan is double that of a human. My appearance is typical for a Vulcan of my age.” They shared another silence, before Sarek offered, “I do not know how to whistle. In that skill, at the very least, you are superior.”

The woman looked down, pursing her lips to suppress another laugh. “High praise. I can teach you, if you’d like?”

“As I do not practice expressions of emotion, the skill would have no purpose for me.”

“Not everything has to have a purpose.”

The lights blinked on. “We apologize for the inconvenience.” The intercom said as the lift lurched back into motion.

“What was the melody you were whistling earlier? It was similar to traditional Vulcan music.” Sarek asked as they reached his floor.

“That’s because it was.” The lift door hissed open and they exited together. Sarek kept expecting her to turn into a hallway or a door, but she continued at his side until they reached the conference room.

Before he could make any inquiries, she opened the door. The room was already populated by several instructors—most of Vulcan subjects, one of interspecies ethics—and the commandant of Starfleet Academy.

“My apologies, Admiral,” the woman said as they took their seats. “The Ambassador and I were caught in a lift malfunction.”

“Thank you Miss Grayson,” the Admiral nodded at the woman. “Have you two been introduced?”

“Not yet.” Sarek said, watching the woman with something close to bewilderment. She gave him a sidelong glance and hid a smile by scratching her nose.

“This is Amanda Grayson. She teaches Vulcan literature here at the Academy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ambassador Sarek. I look forward to working together. I am sure we can learn a lot from each other.” She raised her hand in a Vulcan salute.

He had the distinct impression that she was teasing him by the way her eyes creased in the corners.  _ What an interesting human _ . He returned her salute with more than a passing curiosity.


	4. or which i cannot touch because they are too near

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Spock and Uhura.

Spock was expecting a transmission or a comm call from Nyota that evening, but he did not expect her to appear at his door. He could not muster a greeting, so suddenly assaulted by her somber expression. She was out of uniform, in a fitted black dress with a scarf wrapped around her shoulders and over her head.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Spock stepped aside to let her enter. He watched her survey the room, considering every corner before lingering on the red-toned tapestry above his couch. She had never been inside his quarters before, though she had glimpsed it from the doorway once. The scarf fell from her head and revealed her untied hair, pulled over her shoulder and tucked into the soft gray material around her neck. Her figure was framed neatly by the colors and shapes of his apartment. Her coffee complexion glowed the warm hues of the tapestry, her hand falling gently onto the armrest of his couch the way it often fell on his shoulder.

“No one saw me,” she said, turning back towards him. “Should I take off my shoes?” she added after a pause, looking down at his bare feet. She was wearing what he recognized to be her everyday black boots.

“Only if you wish to,” he replied. “Can I get you anything? Water or tea? Unfortunately, I do not have any coffee.” Spock seldom saw Nyota drink anything besides water, coffee, and beer, though she never failed to ask after which blend of tea he was drinking each day.

She smiled. “No, I shouldn’t stay long.” Spock joined her by the couch and they sat down together. “I feel like we’re back in your office,” she said with a slight laugh as they faced each other on opposite ends.

“This manner of sitting does resemble the positions we frequently took there.”

The trees outside stirred in the silence that followed. Nyota placed a hand on his knee. “Why didn’t you tell me you were teaching again?”

“It is only one class. I… did not anticipate that you would take a course in the philosophy department.”

“ _Interspecies Ethics_ is a requirement if you want to serve on a starship.”

“I realize my mistake now, but I must teach this class. There is no other available instructor. My duties are clear.”

“You really don’t share much with me, do you?” Nyota retracted her hand. His knee felt cold in the absence of its touch.

Spock looked away. “I share what I believe to be relevant.” He heard her sigh.

“Well, I can’t pull out of the class. I’m taking it now because it won’t fit anywhere fall or spring.”

“I would not ask you to.”

“I know.”

He stared at their feet, making shallow imprints in his carpet. His bare feet were still larger than her slim, booted ones.

“What do we do?” Nyota’s voice came close to a whisper, sheathed in a rush of air that almost blended into the rustling leaves outside.

“Perhaps it is best if we postpone our plans of pursuing a more intimate relationship.” Spock said slowly. He repeated the rationality of this proposal in his mind, as he had been all day, outlining the many advantages of this option. Still, he could not wholly suppress the heaviness in his stomach, the voice within him that hissed insistent protests.

His words remained suspended between them for a long pause before Nyota responded meekly, “That would be the logical thing to do.”

“We can resume when the summer semester ends,” he offered.

“Yeah…” The air between them felt weighted. “Well, I should probably go.”

He heard the shifting of fabric as she began to gather the scarf back around her head. His hand found hers at the base of her neck, enclosing her knuckles where she was already grasping the loose fabric.

“I do not want you to leave,” he admitted honestly. Their dark eyes met in a momentary stalemate.

“Illogical,” she accused in a whisper with a small smile.

“I know.” He reached his over and held both of her hands in his, his fingers just brushing each of her earlobes. “I have always performed above average in academics and athletics, accepted to both The Vulcan Science Academy and Starfleet Academy as one of their top applicants. I graduated with honors and accolades in half the time as my peers, served on one of the most distinguished vessels of the Federation, rose in rank swiftly. In short, I am not accustomed to unsuccessful endeavors.”

“Spock,” Nyota tilted her head and twisted her lips into a crooked smile. “You haven’t _failed_ at dating me.”

“I am consistently inadequate.” The fingers on his right hand left hers and slipped into her scarf, tracing the tender spot on her neck.

Nyota reached her free hand between them and touched his jaw lightly. “Nobody is really adequate at relationships. What matters is that you care enough to try.”

Spock released her reluctantly and placed both hands on his lap. “It is irrelevant at this juncture.”

Spock thought about the months stretching before him, during which he would resume passing his days between class and meetings, calls with his mother and strictly scheduled meals eaten alone. He did not realize how he had enjoyed the disruptions she inserted in his life. She called him unexpectedly, suggested they visit places in the city he had never been. She asked him questions he had never before been required to answer, delving into parts of his life that nobody else had ever cared to explore.

It brought to mind the bright, persistent flowers that bloomed in the midst of the most featureless Vulcan deserts, growing despite the shifting sand that tried to bury it. He thought about her lips, forming the multisyllabic Latin-based scientific names of the plants they encountered on their sunny afternoon in the botanical gardens, and how in that moment he had considered how they might feel moving in the same configurations against his cheek. He could not understand the purposeless curiosities she brought out in him, but they punctuated his thoughts with alarming frequency. More alarming was the fact that he had no desire to suppress them, and on the contrary, welcomed their infiltration.

“We can still be friends.”

Spock hesitated. “I am afraid our friendship drew too much attention last semester. And…” he followed the shape of her legs as they folded into her waist and sloped back up along her stomach and arms. “I am concerned that proximity might… impede my resolve.”

He did not know why she creased and tore the neat configurations of his mind but she did, in a way that was foreign and not yet under his command. The fluctuations in emotion—hurtling him from joy to longing to fear and shame in sudden, lurching motions—he did not yet know how to temper them. Therefore, he thought presently, distance might be the best course.

Spock saw a flicker of understanding in her eyes, the constant respect and solicitude for his nature that made her both an exceptional cadet and a considerate friend. “I see,” she said simply. “May I make a selfish request?” He tilted his head and she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “May I kiss you one more time?”

Spock swallowed and tried to keep his tone even. “It is not entirely selfish, as I would not be—” his words stuttered out like a snuffed candle as she covered his lips with hers.

Spock found himself lost in an unknown wilderness, trapped again in the body of a child too small and undisciplined to contain the pulsing force of his own psyche. When he was young, he and his sehlat would disappear without telling anyone of their whereabouts for anywhere between hours and days, despite the worried embraces and stern punishments he faced upon return. He would throw himself into steep dunes and sharp cliffs, thorny forests of brittle plants that lived months without the taste of rain. Only when he was completely alone and gasping for breath did he let himself feel completely, screaming with empty lungs that only uttered shuddering rasps.

The inside of Nyota’s mouth was like the hot sand, her fingers like vines climbing his chest and snaking around his neck, her hair like the dense coat of his sehlat, who curled around him in his most intense periods of unrest, anchoring him to the physical world. The curves of her waist were handholds on a slick, unforgiving rock face and the horizon reeled and tipped as she pulled him down, their knees grappling as he climbed over her. He buried his nose into the warmth under her jaw, pulling her scarf free as he kissed the fading bruise and the slender line of her collarbone.

Her tight dress slid easily up her thighs and he grasped the bare skin that emerged, smooth as the glassy stones he found buried in the desert. He scraped the dark fabric over her hips until the hem gathered with the rest of her dress at the base of her ribcage. He leaned down and kissed the soft flesh of her stomach, the baby hairs in the depression that followed a straight line from her sternum to her navel. He felt her gasp in the tremor that rippled through her abdomen.

Her fingers grasped the folds of his shirt, pulled it resolutely over his head and dropped it to the ground. She pulled him towards her and sucked the flesh on his neck in a way that made his entire body restless. Her nails left light trails on his stomach as she traced her tongue over the slanted line of his ear, scraping the sensitive cartilage with her teeth.

Spock’s breath caught. He saw then the precipice he had been sprinting towards, vast and open like the sky, but vacuous and unpredictable like the empty space above its atmosphere. Every part of him wanted to dive headfirst, keel and spin without caring where he might land, but he forced himself to step back.

“Nyota,” he whispered. “Nyota, please,” he repeated when she continued to kiss his neck. He sat up, leaning against the back of his couch, staring out the window at the leaves tipped white by the streetlights beyond.

There was a moment filled only by their labored breathing, Nyota leaning her head back against the armrest. “Right,” she said at last. “Just a kiss.” He heard her let out a breath before sitting up and fixing her dress. She stood and faced him, her knees touching his lightly.

“You know, sometimes when we’re… like this… I can hardly recognize you. It’s like the Spock I know disappears… becomes something else entirely.”

“Are you afraid?” Spock asked hoarsely, though he himself was afraid of her response.

“No.” She smiled. “Intrigued. You’re like a book I’ve only skimmed, with so much subtext left to discover.”

He reached over and let his knuckles stroke hers. “I do not know this part of myself either. It is equally unfamiliar to me.”

She grasped his fingers. “Then maybe, when the summer’s over, we can explore it together. I’ve always liked studying with you.” She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. “Goodnight, Spock.”

“Goodnight, Nyota.”

Spock did not bother putting his shirt back on when he heard the door shut behind her. His blood felt warm and thick in his veins. He walked to his window and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, waiting there until he saw her slim figure disappear down the path.

* * *

In the weeks that passed, Spock felt more alone than he had in a long time. His mother noticed during their biweekly transmissions, asking him repeatedly if he was being overworked, if he was homesick or unhappy. He had not found an appropriate time to tell her about Nyota, and now it would be pointless to explain the entire situation. He was also unsure of how his mother, a teacher for most of her life, would feel about his relationship with a student; though she teased him from time to time, he did not believe she truly expected him to pursue a romantic relationship at all, least of all with a cadet. Her disapprobation stung him more than anyone else's.

Spock spent a great deal of time deliberately avoiding Nyota. Fortunately, occupying the absent commander’s office in the philosophy department, rather than reassuming his office in communications, prevented frequent meetings. In class he tried his best not to look at her too long, though his eyes scrutinized and memorized every corner of her appearance as soon as they rested on her. He noticed every hair that was out of place, if her eyes looked more or less tired, what color of lipstick she was wearing (he had counted 5 shades she rotated on a regular basis). They still met during his office hours (as expected, Nyota did not let any lingering discomfort affect her academics) but she always came with a classmate, so they were never alone.

Their recent communications were chiefly via transmission. They still sent each other articles and recommended books and discussed the latest issues of their favorite academic journals. Every correspondence grew in length the longer they spent apart, and Spock found himself blocking off significant time every couple of days to compose them.

 _Also, I miss you. I wish I could tell you all this in person. I want to see your face when I talk to you._ Nyota had written at the end of one of her most recent transmissions.

Spock had paused and reread this line several times. There was something very intimate about the way it mirrored his own thoughts. He, too, often wondered how her lips might curve and the angles her eyebrows might take in response to his words. He tried to conjure the picture in his mind, but the past didn’t hold the same weight as the living, breathing present. It left him feeling dissatisfied. Even he knew that this meant he missed her.

He tried to formulate a response that expressed all of this, but in the end could not find the right words. Instead, he replied to her notes on the book of Orion poetry he had recommended her in earnest. He hoped that she would see his longing in the way he carefully dissected each line of the poem she sent him.

When the class opened discussion on the history and ethics of interspecies relationships, the urge to look at Nyota became difficult to resist.

“I’m just playing devil’s advocate here,” an argumentative cadet said in a turn of phrase he often used to preface a point that was either incendiary, irrelevant, or futile (often all three). “Interspecies relationships have only been socially acceptable for a few decades. The morals are still pretty questionable.”

“Several Federation court trials have determined the acceptable parameters for interspecies relationships,” Spock said smoothly, accustomed to tempering such disruptions. _Interspecies Ethics_ tended to be a divisive class. “It is not within Starfleet conduct to question their validity.”

“Right, but,” the cadet continued, “There is still some very gray area when it comes to species that have a disparity in psi abilities.”

“That’s true,” another cadet chimed in. “Plus the counterexample in one of our reading assignments—males of most species are incapable of resisting Orion female pheromones—so isn’t that an imbalance? Morally, I mean?”

“Yeah and Vulcan touch telepathy—is it fair if only one person in a relationship is telepathic?”

“And there’s also Betazoids…”

Murmurs rippled through the lecture hall as the cadets swiped through their PADDs. Every semester Spock taught _Interspecies Ethics_ , he found this lecture to be a particularly disorderly one. He tapped his stylus on the podium.  “Cadets. Let us return to the focus of this discussion—how we should treat issues of interspecies relationships as a neutral diplomatic party. Please reference the readings in your comments.”

“Well, at times they can be an effective strategy to bridge interplanetary tensions—like a political marriage.” Spock recognized this Cadet’s voice instantly.

“Please reference the text, Cadet Uhura.”

“The Contemporary Federation Sociological Review, issue 84, section 10. In the case of a Vulcan ambassador whose choice to take a human wife greatly eased anti-Vulcan sentiments after the Vulcan elder, T’Pau, refused a seat on the Federation.”

Spock tried his best not to look directly at her, pausing to pull the article up on the board instead.

“Oh yeah. That’s a lot of ambassadors started doing that,” the cadet sitting next to Nyota said. “You have to give her some credit, though. Can’t be easy, being married to a Vulcan.” This coaxed an echo of laughter from the class. “No offense, of course, Commander,” she added when Nyota nudged her in the elbow with a scowl. “My girlfriend is Andorian, so I know firsthand—Interspecies relationships are _never_ easy.”

“Certainly not, Cadet Valdez.” Spock tilted his head in reluctant agreement. “Now if you could turn to the court case—”

“Commander, one last question.” Cadet Valdez raised her hand.

Spock paused before folding his hands on the podium before him. “Yes, Cadet?”

“Well…” she pointed to the picture of the young Vulcan ambassador and his wife, accompanying the article on the board behind him. “Are those your parents?”

“That is correct.”

The class fell into a long silence. He saw their eyes dart back and forth between the photo on the board and his face. He closed the article and pulled up the court case he wanted to review without further comment.

After class, Nyota broke from the other cadets and climbed the shallow steps at the front of the room to approach the podium. “Commander Spock.” She held her PADD between them. “I had a question about the reading assignment for next week.”

Spock took the PADD and placed it on the podium before him, turning away from her to examine it. She stepped towards him so that their shoulders touched, pointing at the blank screen between Spock’s hands.

“Are you okay?” her low voice fell under the conversations between the cadets packing up their belongings.

“Why would I not be?” Spock lowered his voice as well, keeping his eyes on their hands. He could smell the clean, citrusy tang of her hair.

“Why didn’t you tell Valdez she was out of line?”

“I was not offended.”

“You _should_ be.” She paused. “I’m sorry I brought up your parents.”

“It was relevant to the discussion.”

“It was personal.”

“It was factual.”

“Spock.” She spoke in nearly a whisper, his name pliant and breathy by his ear. Her hand found his behind the shelter of the podium walls, running her fingers over his. His hand slid from the PADD as he opened his palm to her touch. Their two fingertips pressed together and Spock felt a rush of relief trail from the points where their skin met. She threaded her fingers into the spaces between his, and traced up their sides, along the bones of his knuckles. The texture of her fingerprints sent shivers through his nerves, branching and spreading up his arm, through his lungs, striking every chamber of his heart until it trembled in his abdomen. He ran his index and middle finger along hers, heard her breathing shudder by his ear.

“Commander, I’ve got a question!”

They both looked up abruptly and promptly stepped away from each other as another cadet approached the podium. Spock clasped his hands behind his back and swallowed. “Yes, Cadet Sanderson?”

He saw Nyota pick up her PADD out of the corner of his eye and tuck it back into her bag. “I’ll see you later Commander,” she muttered at the floor before quickly joining the last straggling classmates on their way out the door.

Spock returned home immediately, forgoing lunch for an extended meditation before his dinner meeting with Captain Pike and their newly appointed CMO. This was far from the first time he had been required to engage in supplementary meditation periods since the night he and Nyota had decided to temporarily part ways. He employed all of the independent meditation techniques he had been practicing since he was a child, but still he felt his willpower stretched to its limits. It was not enough.

Though he had known of its existence (and been reminded of such often by his human colleagues) Spock had never before visited the Vulcan temple in San Francisco. It was the only one of its kind in this continent—and only one of two in the entire planet (the other was much more difficult to visit, on a remote volcanic island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean). Until now, he had always found meditating in his quarters adequate, did not have any need for Vulcan counsel, and moreover, felt that a secondhand imitation of a Vulcan temple might be a poor substitute for something authentic.

The temple itself was unassuming, a slim building with narrow windows, in a sandy color that made Spock suspect that it was built from imported Vulcan stone. The inside was a single, domed room. Delicately carved statues of three of the Old Gods—death, peace, and life—their visages much crisper than the ancient effigies found on Vulcan, sat on a raised platform at the center of the room. He could only identify two priests, which did not surprise him. Most Vulcan priests would never leave the homeland. One was playing ka'athyra on one of the benches that lined the walls in the front half of the room, the other in a quiet conversation with a civilian not far from the entrance. Half of the temple was swathed in rows of thick curtains, within which visitors could engage in concentrated meditation.

Spock climbed the steps to stand before the Gods, under the scrutiny of their carved eyes. As he lit fresh incense to ask for guidance in being true to the teachings of Surak, he heard robes shifting behind him.

He turned and offered a salute to the priest who had ended his previous conversation and joined him. The priest offered a salute in return.

“This is your first visit?” the priest asked, tucking his hands behind his back.

“It is,” Spock replied, doing the same.

“I had wondered if you would ever come.”

Spock tilted his head. He sifted through his memory but could not find any recollection of meeting this man. He was older than Spock’s father, his eyebrows thick and grayed as they arched into his straight silvery hairline.

“Ah, yes. Forgive me. We have not met before. I was once acquainted with your father.”

Spock nodded respectfully. “I must apologize for not visiting previously. I am one who prefers private meditation, and to visit the Gods when I am on Vulcan.”

“Most Vulcans do the same. But what brings you here at last? Has it been long since you were able to return home?”

Spock turned away from the man and surveyed the room. He felt out of place in his Starfleet grays, and caught more than one passing gaze linger on him. “It is a personal matter that may require deeper meditation.”

When Spock did not elaborate, the priest nodded. “Our sanctuary is always open. We also have paper volumes of Surak’s teachings, should you choose to consult them.”

“Thank you.”

“I shall leave you to your meditations, then.” The priest raised a parting salute. “I am called Sirak. Should you ever wish to seek counsel for your troubles, I will be here.”

“Your offer is noted and appreciated. I am—”

“Spock.” The old Vulcan’s lips curved into the slightest smile. “Son of Sarek. I am sure we will meet again.”

Spock watched the priest retreat with a mild curiosity. At last, he stepped off the platform. He walked through the curtains and let himself be enveloped in the colors, smells, and sounds of his home until his muscles eased and rationality returned to him, one even breath at a time.


	5. your slightest look easily will unclose me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning to a far off moment.

 

“How about _ennui_ —the dissatisfaction that arises from boredom?”

“Boredom is a human state. If a Vulcan lacks occupation, he finds one.”

“Mm… _schadenfreude_? When someone else’s misfortune gives you comfort or pleasure.”

“That is both illogical and unkind.”

“Compassion, then?”

“Why do you continue to ask me about words which you must be aware have no Vulcan translation?”

Sirak and Inira walked together through the winding paths of Nairobi City Park, at Inira’s insistence. The park was close to the school she taught at, and much smaller than the National Park, focused more on greenery than wildlife. It was split into separate seasonal zones, so that visitors could experience the biodiversity of the region as it was in every time of year. They ambled through the spring sector at a leisurely pace, following the winding paths of gravel lined with red brick and neatly manicured bushes. Flowering trees rose on either side of them, the taller ones spotted with violet blooms, the smaller ones splattered with white and yellow. Verdant acacias and fever trees stretched their branches between them. Inira left the path often, walking through the grass, brushing the bark of the trees she passed with her fingers.

Over the past two weeks, the two had met intermittently, between Inira’s work and class schedules. Sirak helped her through Vulcan translations in libraries and cafés, with Vulcan and English texts open side-by-side. In return, Inira showed him different places in Nairobi, practicing Vulcan phonetics as they strolled through the city, taking advantage of the clear weather while it lasted.

The first rainy week had given way to blue skies once more, after giving the region a taste of the wet season that would be upon them soon. Inira insisted that she could smell it coming, though Sirak was certain what she smelled was the mixture of plant and bacterial matter that had been released into the air by the first rains.

“I want to test the limits of the Vulcan capacity to talk about emotion,” Inira explained. She stopped to examine a smaller tree, reaching up towards a low-hanging branch.

“Contemporary Vulcan is very concise.” Sirak reached past Inira’s shoulder to tug the branch down until she could touch it with her fingertips. “Emotional nuances and connotations have been eliminated, as they are unnecessary.”

Inira tugged the flower from its stem, watching the branch spring back up with a shudder. “’Eliminated’… as in they had existed before.”

“Before the Time of Awakening, yes.”

“Hmm.” she tucked the gold flower into one of the pleats in her hair, where it rested against the nape of her neck. Its color matched her ankle-length dress, which was cut low on her back, the fabric hugging her waist right at the tip of her braid. The hue reflected well on her skin, making her appear lit from within. She continued walking and Sirak trailed a few paces behind her, watching the way the petals trembled with each step she took. She stopped and tipped her head to look back at him. “What about _yearning_?”

“Yearning?”

“Longing. To wish intensely for something you do not have.”

 Sirak stopped walking as he came behind her. “There is a word for _want_ , which you are already aware of.”

“ _Want_ doesn’t quite express it.”

“ _Need_ , then?”

“Not exactly.”

“Earth languages are quite perplexing.”

“I’m afraid so,” Inira laughed, tossing her braid over her shoulder as she started walking away. The flower came loose and tumbled to the ground unbeknownst to her. Sirak bent down and picked it up before following her.

“Why can’t you just tell me the ancient word for it?” Inira stepped underneath a tree with weeping trails of white flowers hanging from its branches. A light wind passed, showering her in a gentle flurry of tiny petals.

Sirak stopped behind her and slid his hand hesitantly under her braid. The backs of his fingers touched the vertebrae just below her hairline. It imparted a sensation similar to an intimate hand-touch, his psychic nerves brushing close to her spinal cord. He felt a slight tremor pass through her back, but kept his composure unaffected as he tucked the flower back into her woven hair. “Most are obsolete and therefore without purpose,” he said quietly, moving his hand to rest on the cool skin of her shoulder. “And what remain are very intimate.” He released her and took a step back.

Inira turned to face him. Her lips quirked into a light smile. “Intimate?” She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds intriguing.” The tree’s hanging tendrils cast a lacy array of shadows on her smooth face.

“They are not to be spoken to outsiders.”

“Outsiders?” She tilted her head. “And here I thought we were friends.”

“Vulcans are very private. Even amongst friends.”

“For all its logic and reason, your species is very complicated.” Inira turned and continued walking, and after a moment’s pause, Sirak followed her.

“It is necessity. You must know of our history.”

“I have studied it, yes,” she said they reached the edge of the climate zone. “But after meeting you, I can hardly imagine it.”

“It is quite beyond human imagination.” They lingered at the border between zones, walking along the force field. Ghosts of their reflections appeared in the boundary. The scene beyond flickered like an old holograph, enveloped in the murky downpours of the rainiest season. Sirak watched the rippling puddles that punctured the path on the other side, the visitors that passed wrapped tightly in rainproof parkas. He turned back to Inira, who was watching him intently. “If the Vulcan psyche were encased in the simple organization of a human mind, its host would be in constant agony. Even if the human were half Vulcan, it would struggle to not be consumed. Vulcans feel deeply, immensely, in a way no human could begin to comprehend.”

“The way no Vulcan could ever comprehend this much rain?” Inira reached out and touched the boundary between them and the adjacent zone. The places where her fingertips made contact turned bluish as the force field resisted her advance.

Sirak smiled. He enjoyed her cleverness with words—the way she connected one idea with another, seamlessly drawing comparisons between disparate things that were, if considered fully, perfectly logical. There was something satisfying about the way her mind worked. He placed a hand next to hers, pressing his palm against the force field so that the blue resonating from his touch intersected with the blue that came from hers. “Precisely.”

She moved her hand closer so that their smallest fingers just barely brushed. “Come on, Sirak. Let me show you what real rain looks like.” She left his side and started towards the gate.

“I am not adequately dressed,” Sirak called after her, though he followed nonetheless.

“Who cares? They have drying stations at every gate. There are people who come here just to get wet.”

“How illogical,” he commented, eliciting a fresh bout of laughter from his companion. Yet, for all his words, he continued by her side.

Sirak was aware that he was, in many ways, allowing her to pull him astray. She was somehow both warm and stubbornly persistent. She moved resolutely, like the wildlife that traveled the plains with no real sense of time and space or the cyclical nature of their lives. Their biology and evolution determined their path, and they followed these instincts unquestioningly. Inira similarly moved in a flurry of whims and impulses. They would plan out a day they had agreed to spend together, only to change course at unpredictable junctures, when Inira was struck with a sudden recollection that emerged from her hazy human memories, or felt an urge to enjoy a food or beverage that she did not even try to resist.

Sirak had not yet met a human who enjoyed his company on such a personal level, without ulterior academic or political motivations. It was true, he did help her with her Vulcan language skills. He found her superior abilities admirable, especially for her species. She had an exceptional understanding of language, which he attributed partially to her extensive knowledge of both Earth and alien tongues. However, they spent much of their time conversing on topics outside of these lessons. She told him about Nairobi, showed him the places she held dear in the city she called home—the only place she had ever lived. He answered all her questions about Vulcan philosophy and history, of the Old Gods and Surak’s teachings. With her, he found the companionship he had been lacking since departing Vulcan.

It was in the past few days that Sirak realized he himself was becoming like these Earth creatures, driven by forces they could not control—only, in his situation, the force was this human woman’s will. He found her absolutely fascinating.

So when she stepped through the gate into the torrential rain, he entered alongside her, despite the fact that he was draped in heavy Vulcan robes, ill-suited for moisture. The trees loomed shadowy silhouette through the haze of rainfall, dark green ghosts of the crisp forms they took under in sunlight. The road ahead was a quivering stream of red, the rich soils churned up into the water collecting between the bricks that carved out the path.

“How does it feel?” she cried out through the roar of water hitting dense foliage.

“Wet,” he responded.

She laughed and tugged his sleeve. “Come on!” They walked along the path, soaked before they were even halfway across. “How many ways can you say rain?”

“In Vulcan, Latin, Sanskrit, and Standard.”

“I can say it in ten languages.” She paused, tilting her head up so the water splattered along the curves of her cheekbones. “But what’s the point?” she sputtered, shaking her head. “If I can never even leave this _city_ , let alone the planet?”

“The pursuit of knowledge is a reason in itself.” Sirak’s hair was beginning to obscure his vision, his straight-cut bangs pressed flat against his brow, pouring thick dribbles of water into his eyelashes. He pushed them back with his fingers, parting his hair slightly to one side. “But if you wish to travel, why not seek occupation in the diplomatic sector of Starfleet? Work as a translator off-planet?”

“Because…” Inira shrugged, looking away. “I’ve already made my promises here.”

Sirak found her response vague and an insufficient justification for remaining planet-bound when ample opportunities for travel presented themselves with the expansion of Starfleet in the infancy of the Federation. He did not ask her to elaborate—he found that humans responded vaguely when they wished to withhold information from the inquisitor. He understood from her response that she must have commitments—either personal or professional—which she felt obligated to uphold. He could not help but be curious of the nature of these commitments, though he could find no reason to ask.

They spend the rest of the walk without speaking, Inira instead singing over the rain until they reached the exit. Crossing through, the first thing Sirak noticed was the incredible silence in the absence of rain. A line of sopping wet humans waited for the drying stations, their faces lit with delight despite their dripping hair and sticky clothes. They joined the back of the queue.

“What a curious practice,” Sirak observed. “I do not understand its purpose.”

“The purpose is to experience something outside of the ordinary. For instance…” she reached towards him, touching his hair gently. “Had it not been for this detour, I would have never seen your forehead. This style rather suits you. Really brings out the eyebrows.” She smiled wide, her cheeks dimpling just under her eyes.

Sirak did not wish to pull away from her touch. There was a certain magnetism in the way her wet skin glistened in the sunlit afternoon. The thick, braided rope of her hair, a limp flower still woven in behind her neck, the yellow fabric clinging to her hips and under her breasts—he should not have been surprised by the attraction he became suddenly aware of. Humans and Vulcans were very similar in appearance, and therefore it was perfectly reasonable that he could be enticed by an aesthetically pleasing female of her species.

He shifted his thoughts to forming a response to her statement, when a passerby spit loudly, violently at their feet. Both looked up to see a man walking by with a grimace. “Shameless,” he said in thickly accented Standard.

Others in line looked away. He noticed then that everyone passing them had been staring, wide-eyed at their interactions. The humans in line ahead and behind them were quiet, their expressions of mirth replaced by discomfort. There was a marked distance between them and others in their vicinity.

This was not an uncommon occurrence. They were watched with disdain everywhere they went, conspicuous in the fact that they were alone together, with no apparent professional obligations towards each other. Humans were not shy with expressions of contempt.

Inira’s eyes fell and she tucked her hands behind her back. “Sorry,” she mumbled before turning away to face the front of the line.

Sirak watched the water streak down the dip between her shoulder blades. If there were no external factors preventing him—no Vulcan, no Earth—if the multitude of concerns that drove their lives disappeared, and they stood together in an empty vacuum between planets and stars, he would have reached over then and pressed his lips to the back of her neck, just under the wilted, rain-worn flower that still held stubbornly to the strands of her hair.

The impulse flickered through his consciousness for a fleeting instant before it was swallowed completely by his discipline. They dried their clothes and parted ways.


	6. though i have closed myself as fingers,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ordinary moments & attempted flirtation.

“Ambassador, good afternoon!”

As was her habit, Miss Grayson greeted Sarek with a wide smile and a look of mild surprise. He wondered at how he always managed to take her by surprise, despite their increasing familiarity. She was leaning over her desk, occupied in some task on its surface.

“Good afternoon, Miss Grayson. I wonder if you might spare some time this afternoon. I would like to review the syllabus you sent me. While it is remarkably thorough, there are a few adjustments that could be made.”

“Yes, of course! Just… Oh, I’ll finish this later.” She straightened as Sarek approached her desk. He could see then that she was in the midst of repairing its surface, which was etched with some form of heat laser, in the shape of the word _TRAITOR_. “Shall we have lunch?” she asked pleasantly, apparently undisturbed by the vandalism.

“Is this a common incident?” Sarek asked, placing his fingertips on the edge of the desktop.

Miss Grayson shrugged. “Sometimes. Honestly, though, I expected Academy students to be more tolerant.” She squinted at the burnt wood. “Although maybe it was one of the maintenance workers…”

Sarek watched her face change as she considered a number of possibilities. It was very obvious when she was thinking deeply—her face shifted to reflect her ponderings. Her eyebrows drew in, her brow wrinkled, and her lips pushed together in a slight pout. He was unsure of whether or not to interrupt her musing.

At last, she looked up. “Right! Shall we have lunch?”

Sarek did not need sustenance yet today. He nodded all the same. Over the course of the first weeks of this particular visit on Earth, Miss Grayson had invited him to have lunch with her eight times. Of the eight, he had only eaten on one occasion. On two occasions, she had no professional inquiries, but had simply wanted to converse with him in her leisure time. She seemed to prefer having such conversations over food, and he was never opposed to accompanying her.

He noted that she never ate dishes containing meat during these engagements, though he had gleaned through overheard conversation that she herself did not follow a vegetarian diet. He appreciated her respect for his customs, and added it to the list of many reasons he found her company agreeable.

He did not know when he began making this list, but it existed, organized by time of discovery, somewhere within his mind. Buried deep in the middle, was the fact that he found her appearance aesthetically pleasing. He recalled this observation as they walked out of the building together, the sun catching her remarkably dark hair, loose around her shoulders today, and long eyelashes, arranged into a pointed array by some form of sticky Terran make up. He appreciated the pointed arch of her eyebrows—something he would never see on a Vulcan woman. He found that it gave her expression the impression of wit. It was illogical, he knew, to make assumptions of personality based on superficial appearance, but he could not help but wonder at what she may be thinking each time she looked up at him across a table.

They sat at one of the round tables on the sunlit patio outside of the instructors’ mess hall as Miss Grayson worked her way through a salad, nodding as he explained the few small changes he would recommend for her Vulcan language syllabus.

He had been briefed on her background prior to their collaboration. She was one of the few instructors at Starfleet Academy who was not herself a member of Starfleet. Her background was as a schoolteacher. Originally, she taught at an arts high school in San Francisco, but proved to have a much more advanced understanding of both Vulcan language and culture than the instructors at Starfleet, having spent more time in research and study than training, serving, and climbing ranks. She was brought in to elevate their curriculum after being discovered by an admiral whose son was a student of hers. Through these unconventional means she quickly became one of the most sought after instructors, both for her effective teaching methods and her approachable personality, which lacked the military formality of most Starfleet instructors.

Sarek could understand this preference. He was pleasantly surprised by the quality of her lessons, and even more so of her company. She never asked him a question he found irrelevant or unworthy of a thoughtful response.

He had come to identify when she was about to ask him something that would require a lengthy response: she squinted at him and brought her dominant hand, fingers still curled around her fork, to her chin. “Ambassador… There’s something I’ve been wondering for some time. Something I’ve found really difficult to find in all of my research of Vulcan culture.”

Sarek blinked expectantly when she paused. This was the first time she had expressed any hesitation in making an inquiry.

“It may be… a personal question. But, I feel like we’ve spent a decent amount of time together, and we’ve developed a good rapport—”

“Speak plainly, Miss Grayson. You know well that Vulcans do not take offense to candor.” Sarek interrupted, disquieted by the sudden faltering in her surefooted character.

“Well… it’s about Vulcan bonding.”

Interesting. No human had ever ventured to ask him about _this_. “Specify.”

“Well, I just don’t understand it. There’s barely anything on record about it, aside for some broken, mostly indecipherable poems and songs from before the Time of Awakening. Vulcan society is built on logic, but I just don’t see the sense. Betrothals and monogamous relationships? Isn’t that archaic in light of all of Vulcan’s other advancements?”

Sarek folded his hands neatly before him. “Vulcan unions are a private matter.”

She waited, but he did not elaborate. A small furrow appeared on her brow. “Most humans are prone to possessiveness and envy, which are very emotional tendencies. Without them, wouldn’t polyamory make more sense, speaking in terms of reproduction?”

“As I said—”

“Then can you at least explain to me the _logic_ in remaining private about courtship and mating?” She leaned forward, her mostly eaten salad abandoned at her elbow. She raised her eyebrows and her lips quivered in an effort not to smile. She was teasing him.

“There is little logic in Vulcan partnerships,” he admitted.

“Ah _ha_.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “I had a feeling that might be the case. I wanted to see if I could get a Vulcan to admit to it.”

Sarek had no further response to offer.

Miss Grayson looked at the table, tucking her hair behind her ears with an odd smile that he had never seen her wear before. “Are you… in one of these ‘partnerships’?”

“I am not.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “I thought all Vulcans were arranged from when they were young.”

“They are.” When she continued to stare at him questioningly, he added, “But my partner is recently deceased.”

“ _Oh._ ” Miss Grayson’s eyes searched his for a moment, perhaps trying to find a trace of emotion in regard to his partner’s death, but Sarek had already resolved such feelings in deep meditation in the days after his wife had passed. “Is that why you rescheduled your arrival? We all thought it was weird for a Vulcan to be late—especially someone so diplomatic.”

He gave a quick, tense nod. “That is correct.”

She bit her lip and her hands fidgeted, fingers wrestling on the table in front of her. He realized that she might be considering a way to offer him comfort. It was interesting to watch how her struggle unfolded so evidently on her face.

“Do not concern yourself, Miss Grayson. It was an event out of my control. I do not suffer from any unnecessary guilt or self-pity.”

“ _Still_.” She seemed more pained than comforted by his reassurances.

“I will consult the elders and take another mate when I return to Vulcan. My solitude is temporary.”

The sun emerged from behind the cloud that had held it for the past several minutes. Miss Grayson squinted, the earthy brown of her irises illuminated as her pupils shrank. She held a hand over her forehead for a moment as her eyes adjusted. “You won’t get to… mourn?”

“That is our way.” When her lips pouted into an expression of displeasure, he thought it might be appropriate to offer her concession for her emotional unrest. “… I appreciate your consideration for my situation. The logical part of me does, at times, wish I could remain solitary for a longer period in deference for my passed partner, but our nature does not allow it.”

This much was true. He felt his partner’s absence often still. He could not imagine filling that space with any other presence, though he knew he soon would. She was the only bondmate he had ever known, and decades of such intimacy left traces.

Miss Grayson frowned. “That’s unfair.”

Sarek felt a flicker of amusement at her reaction. ‘Unfair’ was an interesting choice of word. “There is no injustice in it, Miss Grayson. _Your_ nature leaves you much too inclined towards indignation.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not sure if I should take offense to that.”

“I am saying that you are kind. Perhaps to a fault. Whether or not you choose to take offense to this observation is entirely at your discretion.”

Her posture softened, her arms relaxing slightly. “Oh.” She looked down, a gentle flush creeping into her complexion. “Ambassador, that’s…”

“Miss Grayson, considering the frequency of our interactions, I believe it is appropriate for you to address me by my given name.”

This somehow agitated her further, and her face took on a warm, pinkish glow. “I… will take that under advisement. But only if you refer to me as ‘Amanda’.”

Sarek hesitated. He had offered her the use of his name because increasingly, he found that those who addressed him as “Ambassador” did so with an unpleasant tone. He did not wish for his interactions with Miss Grayson to be colored by such an association. Yet the idea of addressing her by first name in return seemed entirely too intimate and brought him a certain degree of discomfort. This contradiction was perplexing.

While he pondered this, Miss Grayson— _Amanda_ , rather—stood to dispose of the remains of her lunch. She returned to the table but did not sit down. “Listen… _Sarek,_ ”—she broke eye-contact as she spoke his name—“What are your plans for this afternoon?”

“I intended to return to my quarters to review the materials for the next council meeting.”

“Is that absolutely pressing?”

He considered it, then shook his head. “It is not.”

She smiled and tucked her hands behind her back, leaning her weight into one leg in a way that clearly exposed her as a civilian—officers of Starfleet always held themselves evenly.  “Would you like to accompany me somewhere? This conversation has been entirely too heavy and I think a diversion is in order.”

He tilted his head. “Where do you have in mind?”

“Mmm… Have you ever been to Redwood National Park? The forest there is beautiful—something I’m sure doesn’t exist on Vulcan.”

“I have not had the opportunity.” He realized she was improvising a way to draw out their time together, though he could not divine why. He stood up. “I shall accompany you, then.” She looked inordinately pleased at his decision, her smile revealing her teeth as it stretched wider.

They took a civilian transport from the station that zipped through the Californian landscape in a blur of light and color. Sarek had never travelled by this method before, usually travelling in Federation or Starfleet vehicles. It was rather cramped for Sarek’s long Vulcan limbs, his elbows nudging Amanda’s each time they slowed to a halt at a station.

The civilians sharing the transport kept a measured distance, but their eyes lingered on Sarek as they passed. He suddenly became aware that those eyes also scrutinized Amanda when she was at his side. He did not feel offense for himself, but he did acknowledge the pang of guilt he felt for her situation. He recalled the word etched into her desktop. He wondered if another such act of harassment or vandalism was occurring at the office in her absence.

“I hope that your association with my species has not been too great a cause of inconvenience. I do not want you to endure any undue criticism.”

Amanda leaned her head against the window and gave him a small smile. “Now who’s being indignant?”

Sarek chose to ignore this latest attempt at cleverly turning his words against him (a pastime that he was beginning to realize greatly entertained her). “I assure you, it is a temporary state of affairs. These fluctuations of interplanetary relationships are common. I trust that our species are more like-minded than not, and it will be resolved in due time.”

“Well they did assign the right man for the job.” She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “I hear a couple of the council members are warming up to you already. With your track record, I’m not worried. Let’s just not think about it for an afternoon.” She turned back towards the window.

Sarek felt an unexpected relief as the buildings became sparse and the city faded into the distance. He had not realized how much effort he was subconsciously employing to temper his anxiety about the unrest rippling through San Francisco, until its burden was lifted. A newfound calm settled over his muscles.

The clear day was beginning to wane. The sky was a slick sheet of blue, and the sun flickered through the lower foliage as they ducked into one of the trails. The cool, heavy shadows of evening had already begun to cradle the undersides of lower branches.

“We’ll have to take the short path,” Amanda said as they came to a fork. “We need to return before dark.”

Sarek nodded, and allowed her to lead them along the winding path. The forest became denser with every minute they walked, and the tree trunks grew thicker until they were surrounded by old redwoods, the dappled green canopy shuddering in the wind many meters above. Sarek found himself craning his neck to watch their thick trunks stretch towards the sky.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“You were correct. There is nothing quite like this on Vulcan.”

The path was empty, the park past its peak hours. The sinking sun bathed the trees in a warm, golden light. As they walked side-by-side, they encountered no evidence confirming that they were not completely alone in this ancient forest.

“They’re some of the tallest trees on Earth. And some are over a millennium old…” Amanda’s voice was soft and reverent.

“That is apparent.” Sarek raised his eyebrows as he surveyed the forest. “The Vulcans who made first contact with this world were quite impressed by the variety in its organisms. There is a great number of carbon-based species on this planet.”

Amanda smiled. “You sound almost sentimental.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I do not know what you mean.”

She shook her head and looked out into the trees. “I used to come here with my family often in the summers when I was young. We would stay in the camp grounds and sleep under the stars. That’s when I started wondering about what else was out there. If I had known then that I’d be walking through the same paths with the Vulcan ambassador…” she laughed. “I would have been over the moon.”

“Over the moon?” Sarek looked down at her. She was using an idiom—a very inefficient idiosyncrasy in human languages. He often had to ask for explanations when he encountered one (though sometimes they could be difficult to identify).

Amanda seemed neither surprised nor offended by his confusion. On the contrary, she seemed diverted by it. “ _Ecstatic_ ,” she said, enunciating every syllable with playful emphasis. “Your turn.”

Sarek did not realize they were engaging in a turn-based activity. His eyebrows drew in. “I do not understand.”

“Well, I shared a personal story with you. It is customary for humans to reciprocate such information.” Sarek recognized her tone of voice as the same one she used when giving the lecture he sat in on during his first week in San Francisco. He knew that no such human custom existed, and he also knew that she must be aware that, with his education and diplomatic experience, he would know this. She seemed to be playing some kind of game of wit, though he could not figure out what the rules or objectives might be. Astonishingly, he played along regardless.

“Very well. When I was young, just before I came of age, my father and I made our first pilgrimage to visit the temple on Mount Seleya. During that journey, I too spent the nights observing the stars. It was a time I enjoyed. I no longer have such simple moments of leisure.”

“Is it true that the sky on Vulcan is red?”

They stopped in front of a fallen tree, the diameter of the trunk nearly as tall as Amanda. Sarek scrutinized the countless rings etched into its rust-colored heartwood. “That is correct.”

“God, I would love to see it.”

Sarek touched the exposed wood gently with his fingertips. “I trust you realize that our interactions will have no influence on whether you are chosen as one of the faculty members leading the exchange program, if that was your intent in our meetings.”

She laughed, unoffended. “Of course I know that. I just _like_ our meetings.”

Though Sarek had suspected this was the case, hearing Amanda say it aloud gave him satisfaction. She moved closer, pressing their shoulders together. Had it been anyone else, anywhere else, he would have moved away. But they were alone on this path, and the warmth of her body was pleasant against his. “I always imagined that Vulcan would look something like this.” She placed her hand beside his and began tracing the lines in the russet wood with her fingertip.

Sarek thought about Vulcan’s shifting sands, the blazing sky set against the towers of Shi’Kahr. The pinpricks of stars appearing as the sky dipped into the dark, velvet red of twilight. “The colors do bear resemblance to some Vulcan landscapes.”

Amanda exhaled. “I can hardy imagine it.”

He looked up into the kaleidoscope of green and blue in the treetops above. “When I was young, walking through the desert with my father, I did not imagine I would one day walk under a sky so blue.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the light shift as Amanda tilted her head upwards. “Now you really are being sentimental,” she whispered, as if her speech might interrupt a tenuous moment between themselves and the forest.

He wanted to disagree, explain to her that what she mistook for sentimentality was merely a restatement of his thoughts on a past occasion. But whatever words he was forming left his mind in a rush when her hand brushed the back of his. Lost in their observations, they did not notice their hands drifting closer until they had already crossed paths. Her fingers were cooled by the evening air, but soft against his knuckles. The unrestrained warmth of her consciousness was upon him before he could guard himself, its edges humming with affection. His pulse fluttered to life in his stomach, though he could not be sure whose heart it was that raced at the contact. He jerked his fingers away, clasping his hands tightly behind his back.

“My apologies.” “I’m sorry!” Their words overlapped as they both took a step back.

Sarek quickly regained himself, but Amanda looked flustered, clutching her hands unsurely in front of her stomach with her eyes cast down.

“It is a very intimate Vulcan gesture,” Sarek began to explain. “My psi-points may have—”

“I know what it is,” she interrupted quickly. “I’m so sorry. I was careless. I should have kept my distance.”

“It is illogical to apologize for an accident. Please do not concern yourself.”

She looked up at last and their eyes met. Sarek became suddenly concerned that he had inadvertently opened a door that would not close again. She was very evidently affected, though he could not determine how unpleasant she might have found the experience. At last she turned away and continued down the path, her pace slightly quicker than before.

“We should keep going,” she said without turning around. “The sun is setting.”

He watched the waves in her hair sway as she walked. He was forced to acknowledge, however reluctantly, that the sensation had not been unpleasant. Rather, it had been quite pleasant. He brushed the thought away and followed her. She was right; night was swiftly approaching.


	7. you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

Spock stared at the odd object on his desk for a long moment before picking it up. He recognized it as the ancient art of paper-folding, originating from the Japanese region of Earth. A small white crane sat facing his chair. He picked it up gingerly and examined the neat folds. On one wing, in tiny Vulcan script, read the words _unfold me_.

He felt a sting of anticipation, for he knew instinctively whose beautiful Vulcan handwriting he was looking at, even though he had never seen her penmanship before. He sat down and carefully undid the intricate configuration until he had one square of creased paper. In the center, Vulcan script sloped one neat column.

_Pen is safer than transmission._

Beside it, in Vulcan numerals, read the next day’s stardate, _2300_ , and a set of geographic coordinates. Spock crumpled the piece of paper in his fist and searched his office, as if expecting to see Nyota in the doorway. He shoved it into his pocket and took out his personal PADD to look up the coordinates. It was a lookout point in the Grand Canyon, about an hour away on civilian high-speed shuttle. The trail leading to it was rather difficult to navigate, but not impossible for two well-trained members of Starfleet. He understood the meaning of this—the path would not be much travelled. It was intended as a point to view sunrise or sunset, with a transporter room a little way from the coordinates, so that visitors would not have to navigate the difficult path in the dark.

Spock returned to his quarters mentally reciting all of the reasons he should not attend this meeting. It was an undeniably poor decision. Despite this, he found himself packing the provisions he would need for the hike, and checking departure times to the Grand Canyon transport station that brought him closest to the trail.

The station was only moderately crowded when he arrived the next day, the visitors all mostly leaving the Canyon for the day. The further he walked, the more the people around him thinned. The fork in the trail that led to the lookout point was empty. He wondered if Nyota was somewhere along it, an unknowable distance ahead of him. The thought made him walk faster, efficiently navigating the uneven terrain, stopping at times to scale a short rocky outcropping or find his footing across a particularly narrow point in the path. He paused only to take an occasional gulp from his water bottle, and at all times kept his gaze ahead. His eyes found every snapped twig and upturned stone, looking for any evidence that might tell him who might have left it—animal or human or a human named Nyota.

As he climbed higher, the trees became sparse and the canyon yawned beside the thinning path. In the fading light, the striped rock faces turned a deep, fiery orange, the sky a stretch of lavender and pink above it. He stopped for a moment to rest and observe. He had, of course, visited the Grand Canyon before. It was one of Earth’s most famous natural formations. No other Class M planet had one quite like it.

The first time Spock had visited was with a field training class during his time as a cadet. They were broken into away teams and left in some unforgiving area of the canyons equipped with only a half-charged phaser each and expected to survive five days and then make their own way back. The survival exercise did not leave them with too much time to appreciate the landscape as they scrambled for food and shelter.

Now, Spock took in the full splendor of the blazing colors and rippling cliffs. It was quite remarkable. The emotional unease he had been feeling settled lightly in his stomach. He briefly imagined Nyota’s figure against the scenery. He turned away and continued.

It was almost dark when he reached the lookout point. He first spotted the square shadow of the transporter building. He walked beyond it, up a steep incline to an outcropping with little tufts of dry brush. He saw the outline of a head and shoulders and knew immediately that it was Nyota. He walked a little faster, and she heard him approaching. Her head turned, and he caught the sight of her profile silhouetted against the twilit sky.

She did not greet him, but waited instead for him to sit beside her before saying, quietly into the darkening canyon, “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“I should not have,” he replied.

They watched the last light disappear in silence, and the canyon below sink into shadow. To Spock’s surprise, the darkness was not absolute. The cliffs were tipped with thin silver outlines, the sky scattered with pale stars, and the moon gleamed, smooth and white. He could just barely see the ghosts of Nyota’s features in the cool light.

“How does Vulcan look under a full moon?” she asked through an exhale.

“Vulcan has no moon, Nyota,” Spock said after a pause.

He heard her laugh, and her hand found his between them. “I’m not surprised, Spock.”

“The stars are much brighter, however, with no moon to wash them out.” Spock wove his fingers into hers and felt the warm flutter of her heartbeat in his own chest. “When my father and I took our first journey to the temple on Mount Seleya, we stopped each night to name the ones that appeared closest.” It was one of the few fond memories he had of his father. The way Sarek gazed out into the sky then was almost wistful.

“That sounds lovely.” Nyota edged closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“It seems that I have always had a fondness for stars, _Nyota_.”

She laughed, turning her face into the crook of his neck. Her breath tickled his skin. “My grandmother chose that name,” she said, her voice humming where her chest leaned against his arm. “She had always wanted to travel off-planet, but never got the chance. She told me I was born on the clear night of a new moon, when the stars were at their brightest. Like I was made for them.”

“ _It suits you_ ,” Spock replied in Swahili. Nyota lifted her head and looked at him in surprise.

“Since when do you know Swahili?”

“ _I am learning_.” He paused, and then switched back to Standard. “I thought it might be appropriate, as you are so proficient in my native tongue.”

“You romantic.” She pressed her free hand against his cheek. “It’s been miserable, not being able to see you.”

“I have also found our separation… disagreeable.”

She pressed the tip of her nose, cooled by the evening air, into his cheek. “Would it be terrible if we met like this sometimes… somewhere nobody can see us?”

“It would be inadvisable.”

She kissed him then, her mouth surprisingly warm against his. “But you came.”

He had come, in spite of his better judgment. Judgment was something he had been lacking as of late. The fragile stitches he had sewn as a child, just barely containing the scorching, tumultuous Vulcan emotions that tore his mind apart in his early years, were coming undone in places. Every time he looked at her, it was as though she was reaching into his very being and tugging and unfolding everything, opening him up the way he had opened the paper crane she left on his desk.

His visitations to the Vulcan temple had been helping him gain better control of himself. The priest he had met on the first day agreed to meld with him periodically to assist him in stabilizing his mental control.

“You must take a bondmate soon, Spock,” he had said at the conclusion of their last meeting. “You have never experienced the fever, and therefore have never had release for the baser parts of your nature. You cannot continue as you are, without the tether of a bond.”

Spock had never considered how much T’Pring’s mind had brought order to his all these years. For her, it was nearly effortless. He doubted that she even noticed her own influence.

With Sirak’s assistance, he could face Nyota with much more equanimity, but he still did not know how to proceed. The tenuous nature of their relationship and the demands of his physiology were at odds. He wanted more time to explore their relationship, needed more time to reach a point in their careers when it would be a logical endeavor, but was too young and far too busy to manage this new psychological development alone. The most reasonable solution would be to make a short trip to Vulcan and settle a new betrothal, but he could not bring himself to do so. He found that he only wanted Nyota.

Every aspect of the situation had exceedingly unfortunate timing. He did not know what to explain, or how to make such a heavy request so prematurely. All he could do was kiss her in return and draw out this moment in which he had to neither think about nor feel anything beyond the taste of her lips.

He kissed her fiercely, cupping her jaw, her face small and delicate beneath his large hand. He moved to grip the back of her neck, sliding his fingers underneath her ponytail, his other hand wound tight in hers, locked in the irresistible pull of her heart and mind.

“Spock,” Nyota shuddered his name somewhere between a whisper and a moan. He smothered the sound with his tongue and let his fingers slip into the collar of her jacket, along the ridges of her spine. She tried to slide her hand out of his, but he gripped it more tightly, not wanting to break contact. Her other hand pressed against his chest, gently pushing him away. “Spock,” she repeated, her voice steadier this time.

He pulled away, releasing her hand and seeking out her features in the dark. “Do you find this… unpleasant?”

“No,” she said, cupping his face in both her hands. “What’s wrong, Spock?”

“I do not understand your query.”

“You’ve been… different lately. Evading questions, letting me touch your hand like that in the classroom—it’s not like you. You’ve been acting illogically. Is everything okay?” her voice was quiet and gentle, despite the fact that they were completely alone, perhaps for many kilometers. It reminded him of the way his mother spoke to him when he was very young and plagued by an erratic temperament that displeased his father.

He briefly considered asking her then, but did not know how to convey what he wanted. It was an intimacy that did not have any human translation. Instead he said, “I cannot explain.”

He felt her body tense. She sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure if you even try. We talk about academic things so easily—the articles, the lectures, my thesis—but when it comes to personal things, you’re so… _difficult_.”

“I am sorry, Nyota. I am Vulcan.” Even as he spoke the words, he felt that they were an insufficient excuse for his deficiencies. He wanted so much to please her but many times did not feel like he had the adequate means to do so.

“I know. I just want you to let me in.”

Again, he was given an opening to ask to meld with her, and again he let it pass. He needed more time to organize his thoughts and make sure to consider every feasible possibility before taking such a measure. Or perhaps all of these reasons were his way of explaining and justifying an apprehension that bordered on fear—of rejection and failure. “We should not meet like this again. I acquiesced in a moment of weakness, but we are both aware that it should not be repeated.”

 A heavy silence followed. “I don’t understand you,” she said, her tone low with irritation. “You always go on about how flawed human emotions are, but you contradict yourself at every turn. You’re _so_ sweet one moment, and cold the next—it’s confusing.” She let out a sigh of frustration and stood up. “Stop leading me on.”

“That was not my intention.”

“I know, but unintentional things hurt just as much.” She began walking away from him, towards the transporter building. Though he wanted very much to stand up and follow her and wrap his arms around her waist and whisper apologies into her ear, he did not. She was right.

He let her have a head start, sitting for a long time with his face turned up towards the stars. He thought about the _Enterprise_ , dormant on the Earth’s surface, waiting to embark on its maiden voyage. Though he encouraged her to apply, dared to hope that the _Enterprise_ ’s crew would see all of her accomplishments as plainly as he did, there was no guarantee that she would earn a posting there. In a year, he would likely be leaving her regardless. Perhaps this was for the best. He did not want to cause her any more distress.

When he finally embarked on his return towards the transporter room he was surprised when he ran into the shadowy figures of two women, laughing and leaning in close as they made their way to the lookout point. He did not recognize them until they were already several meters away. One was Cadet Valdez, one arm locked into an Andorian woman’s, the other gripping a picnic basket. His posture immediately stiffened. The likelihood of him running into someone he knew, let alone specifically one of his students, was astronomically low. Yet, here they were.

“ _Commander Spock?_ ” It was clear that Cadet Valdez’s surprise matched his.

“Cadet.”

“What are you… doing here?” She stopped walking, and the Andorian woman on her arm looked between them with a questioning expression.

“I… came to admire the scenery.”

“I didn’t know Vulcans spent their time… ‘admiring scenery’.” She raised her eyebrows doubtfully.

“They can.” Spock was not sure what her tone meant to imply. Though she was very outspoken for a cadet, he had never known her to be inclined towards prejudice. On the contrary, she seemed a rather congenial individual, astute when it came to interpersonal relationships, which she demonstrated very clearly in _Interspecies Ethics_. He adjusted his backpack and nodded once. “Have a good evening, Cadet.”

For a moment he thought that this would be sufficient to end their meeting, but Cadet Valdez unhooked herself from her partner and placed a hand on her hip, saying, “Commander Spock, did you happen to run into Cadet Uhura?”

Spock stopped walking, but did not dare turn around. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that, I ran into her in the transporter building. She told me she had just completed a hike, and I thought it was weird that she’d be here alone. It’s a pretty difficult trail, you know, and they usually recommend hiking it with at least one partner.” Cadet Valdez’s voice took a very deliberate casual tone that sounded stilted. Her implication was suddenly very clear.

“As a trained cadet, I do not doubt that Cadet Uhura has the ability to hike such a trail alone.” Spock’s stomach began to clench with an anxiety he was having difficulty containing.

“I guess so. But now you’re here too. I just thought it was… _weird_.”

“It does appear to be an unlikely circumstance.” This was all he could say without lying outright. “I must be going. Enjoy your night, Cadet.” He began to retreat swiftly down the path before she could ask a more direct question. He could almost be sure he felt her gaze following his back long after they had parted.

* * *

“May I make an emotional inquiry?”

Sirak raised his eyebrows. “You may, though I cannot guarantee a satisfactory answer.”

Sirak and Spock sat cross-legged in one of the curtained chambers of the temple. Red and orange fabric formed a tent around them that reached all the way up to the high ceilings. A small lamp burned between them, the only light besides the remnants of sunlight that managed to slip through the gaps between the ceiling and the top of the drapes.

“You have lived among humans for very long, is that correct?”

“Longer, even, than I have lived on Vulcan.”

“Is there a correct way to explain to humans the Vulcan desire, necessity, and drive to meld and be bonded? I cannot seem to find a way of adequately expressing it.” Spock was ashamed to be asking such a question, despite the privacy and intimacy that were inherent in the relationship between a Vulcan and his priest. He was concerned that the desire to explain such a thing—which was rarely spoken of even between two Vulcans—was somehow disrespectful.

Sirak’s lips curved into a light smile. Though he was undeniably disciplined, and of course very knowledgeable in the Vulcan ways, there was something about Sirak’s expressions that Spock found to be very human. Perhaps the decades of living on Earth had altered him in some way. Spock wondered if he himself would be thus altered one day. “Spock, I apologize for responding to your question with one of my own. I have been in your mind, experienced some of the most conflicted places within it. May I address some of its more private aspects?”

Spock hesitated. At last he turned his gaze to the small lamp and said “You may.”

“I have seen her, and I have experienced what you experience. It brings back memory of a very distant time in my life. I see much of myself in you, and much of your father as well.”

Spock had never before been told of any similarity between himself and his father, except by his mother, on rare occasion. On Vulcan, everyone was quick to point out the ways in which he was like his mother. On Earth, nobody he interacted with regularly were much acquainted with either of them. He was intrigued by the comparison. “How so?”

“Many Vulcans are confused by human emotional drives, and do not view them in any favorable light. They believe it to be a flaw in an otherwise rather enlightened species. This is why true socialization between human and Vulcan is exceedingly rare. But you, like your father, and like myself, see the merit in humanity—the things it can achieve, which we are incapable of.”

Spock wondered if the old Vulcan’s mind was beginning to weaken. To imagine his father seeing merit in human emotions was beyond his capabilities. He frowned.

“Do not doubt my words, Spock. I have known your father longer than you have.” There was a glint of amusement in Sirak’s eye as he watched Spock’s expression change. “One does not become the ambassador to Earth without deeply understanding and respecting its inhabitants.”

Spock nodded. He acknowledged that this was a logical assessment. He paused before admitting, “I do not understand the relevance of your observations.”

“I am sure you know of the Standard term of ‘love’.”

“Certainly. It is an emotion of affection and regard, often shared by friends and family, as well as in romantic partnerships.”

“Correct. But it is a term Vulcans often struggle with, because of its variable application. We value specificity, and therefore have many different words for the one Standard word.”

“I, too, share that struggle, though it is not a topic I often ruminate on.” Spock’s eyebrows drew in.

“Ah, but you see.” Sirak pointed two fingers at the middle of Spock’s forehead. “There is merit in its comprehensive definition. The desires and needs you describe—in Standard, could they not all be summarized into one, simple term?”

Spock had never considered this. The idea of “romantic love” appeared to him mostly in his studies of human literature, and had been categorized in his mind as something fictional—almost fantastical—like the winged angels and miniature faeries of human legend. He had never thought to use it as something that could be reasonably applied to the very concrete, visceral feelings he had for Nyota. A long silence passed as he mulled this over.

“I admit, I am amused by our conversation,” Sirak said lightly at last.

Spock was not sure whether to be offended. He set his mouth in a tight line.

“Do not be troubled. It merely echoes a conversation I once had with your father. The parallels are what amuse me.”

Spock absolutely could not conceive a situation in which Sarek sat with a Vulcan priest discussing the particulars of human love versus Vuclan bonding. The concept was completely absurd.

Sirak looked about as close to laughter as a Vulcan could. “You are fortunate, Spock. You are capable of much more than myself, or your father.”

“To what do you refer?”

“You can choose to follow an emotional path, and forgo logic, if you please. It would not break you in the same way.” Sirak looked into the flame flickering between them. “Perhaps if I had the same ability, I would not have lost something very important—something which I was not able to grasp with the same conviction you could.”

Spock stared at the priest, now completely lost between his cryptic references. Sirak looked back at Spock and began to stand. “Never mind the words of an old man. The centuries have made me soft. I shall leave you to complete your meditation.”

“Thank you,” Spock said just before he disappeared into the curtain folds. “Truly, I—”

Sirak lifted a hand. “It is my duty.” His fingers parted in a salute. “Be well.”

Spock stared at the fluttering fabric long after Sirak had disappeared. He closed his eyes and saw immediately Nyota’s moonlit face, gazing still and pensive at the stars. _Love, is it?_ As if by instinct, his chest tightened and his heart trembled at the thought.


	8. (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long-overdue update.

For nearly a week, Sirak avoided meeting with Inira. He began plotting potential travel routes that would resume his journey as planned. Though he had hoped to remain in Nairobi longer and observe the phenomenon of the Serengeti migration, he had discovered in meditation that his relationship with Inira was progressing in an unexpected and somewhat alarming direction. He reminded himself of his vows to the Vulcan High Council, and the true purpose of his voyage. With this, he strengthened his resolve to leave behind the city and continue onwards.

He had not yet determined whether he would say goodbye. The portable console he carried on his travels now had a message database full of unanswered transmissions from Inira’s personal device.

The last one read:

_I’m sorry. If I have offended you, at least let me understand and apologize. I miss you._

_Yours,  
Inira_

He did not prefer allowing her to believe she had done wrong, that the fault was in her actions or words. It was quite opposite; she was intelligent, courteous, kind. He had always respected humans for their progressive society, tolerated the aspects of their civilization that were still developing with consideration to their relatively new status as an intergalactic player, and understood the ways in which their culture was inherently different from the Vulcan way. However, Inira was the first human he genuinely connected with—the first one to make him appreciate the differences between their species rather than merely accept them. While he typically found human emotional displays unsightly and somewhat disturbing, with Inira, they were scintillating, inexplicably captivating.

Perilously so.

For the first time, he found himself in danger of becoming truly attached to something. He had decided very early in his life that he would devote himself to the teachings of Surak. In the first stages of his schooling he discovered his preference for theology and investment in both the words of Surak and the preservation of the Old Gods, and therefore it was only logical to pursue priesthood. He had severed his betrothal before his first Pon Farr and mated only with a priestess of Mount Seleya when he was struck with the fever—a different one each time to prevent any worldly attachment that might hinder a true dedication to logic. Upon completion of his journey, he was to begin training for kolinahr.

He could not afford to be distracted in this way.

He spent the night before his departure wide awake staring at his handheld and picturing Inira’s face. Not even meditation could calm his regret. When Sirak sat in the hostel mess the next morning, for what he believed would be his final meal in Nairobi, the Vulcan xenozoologist he had become rather familiar with sat with him at the end of a long table.

“I am sorry to see you go,” the older Vulcan told Sirak when informed of his departure. “The company of your own species in a foreign world is a valuable one. I have enjoyed yours greatly.”

“As I have yours.” Sirak nodded. “But my journey must continue.”

“The migration is upon us. It is a fascinating sight to witness, if you had the opportunity before your departure. However, your duties are of a higher priority.” He sipped his soup. It was logical to be confused as to why, though he had stated on previous occasion that his reason for remaining in Nairobi was to witness the migration, and that the demands of his journey were not urgent or time-sensitive, Sirak had chosen to depart at this juncture. While the man sitting across the table was intelligent and observant enough to take note of these contradictions, he did not inquire about them. Instead, he asked, “Have you enjoyed your stay?”

“Quite so,” Sirak replied truthfully. “I had the leisure to have diverse experiences.”

The old Vulcan raised his eyebrows and flashed a ghost of a smile. “This planet certainly has no want of diversity. That is why I have dedicated so much of my life to studying it.”

Out of curiosity, Sirak asked, “What is the most fascinating species you have encountered during your stay?”

His companion gave him with a look which communicated clearly that he found Sirak’s question absurd. “Humans, of course.”

“Of course.” Sirak said, swirling his spoon around his bowl. He could not quite find the appetite for the stew before him. “They are the dominant species.”

The man nodded, placed his utensil down, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Our species is too apt to find fault in humanity. While they are quite different, and in many ways rather inefficient, there is some grace in their way. By succumbing to emotional and illogical impulses, they allow themselves more opportunity for diverse experiences.”

Sirak abandoned his meal altogether and leaned back in his chair. He placed his hands on his lap, considering the other man’s words. “That is an intriguing way to view their lifestyle.”

“Diverse experiences broaden one’s perspective.” He offered another smile, one that lingered this time.

“Indeed,” Sirak agreed. Even if he did not see Inira again, he could not deny that she had changed his perspective. He bid his companion goodbye and exited the mess hall, intending to return to his quarters and dictate a log entry ruminating on this conversation.

“ _Sirak!_ ”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. He knew before he turned who stood at the hostel entrance. The few passerby slowed and eyed Inira as she walked towards him.

“Inira.” Sirak wanted to say something more, ask her why she was here, how she even found him, but could not form sentences when faced with her bright eyes. His pulse quickened, his mouth dried, and his mind became acutely aware of just how much danger he was in. Still, he could not stop himself from stepping towards her.

“My father told me that his Vulcan zoologist was staying here,” she said breathlessly, as if reading his question through his expression. “Which is good, because I might have called every hostel in the city looking for you.”

Her hair was loose around her shoulders, slightly disheveled from her journey. Her dress was the blazing orange of an Earth sky just before the sun dipped below the horizon. Her skin, glowing from the fresh air outside, beckoned him. Sirak could not understand why his emotions became so wild all of a sudden. He almost embraced her, overcome by the longing he had been suppressing over the past few days. He was able to control himself enough to settle for touching her elbows gently and saying, “Perhaps we should go somewhere more private.” They were being watched, not very discretely, by everyone else in the room.

She took his hand. “Come with me.” Sirak was powerless to resist as she led him outside, to a car that was parked a block from the hostel. He hesitated only a moment before getting inside of it with her.

“National Park Transport Station,” Inira told the navigation. The car zipped into motion and Inira turned to Sirak, one hand draped over the manual steering wheel. “What did I do? Just tell me, and I’ll apologize, I’ll try to make it right.”

Sirak folded his hands in his lap and looked away, staring out into the city traffic. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Then what is it?”

“I must leave.”

She was silent for a moment before asking, quietly, “Why now?”

“We cannot meet any more.”

“So I _did_ do something wrong!” This was the first time Sirak heard Inira raise her voice.

“It is precisely the opposite of that.” Sirak’s voice was harsher than he intended. When she did not reply, he continued, “I have made my vows.”

Inira grasped his sleeve and he looked at her at last. Something fierce burned in her gaze. “Do you think I haven’t made promises as well? I shouldn’t be seeing you either!” She looked down and her fingers slipped from his sleeve down his wrist to curl up inside his palm. “I never expected to meet you. I never thought that—”

“Destination.” The mechanical voice of the car cut her off midsentence, and in the following silence Sirak’s hand wrapped around hers. Warmth spread from their connected fingers and for a moment, he forgot himself. Inira exhaled a shuddering breath. Her eyes fluttered closed as a swell of tenderness and desire passed between their skin.

“Sirak,” she whispered. “We…” She pulled her hand away. “We should get going.” She exhaled again, steadier this time, and turned away, staring out the windshield and biting her lip for a moment before stepping out of the car.

Sirak stepped out as well. “What is our destination?” he asked as they walked towards the transport station.

“What you’ve been waiting to see,” she said, before entering the building ahead of him.

While he watched Inira speak to the transport controller, he considered how his heart was racing, how he had trouble sleeping the previous night, how his appetite was waning. He had expected to visit Vulcan for a short time later that year in order to undergo his Time, but there was a chance it was happening sooner. He did not know how being off planet might have affected his biological impulses. He had to arrange transport back to Vulcan as soon as possible.

They materialized in the corner of a small cabin. Its walls were lined with tanks and cages in which a variety of animals Sirak had never seen before slumbered. A long lab bench surrounded by probes and medical instruments occupied the center of the room. A table in the back had a large console, glowing with half-finished notes and equations.

“It’s one of the park research facilities,” Inira explained, opening the glass door that separated the transporter pads from the rest of the cabin. She tapped the control panel beside the door. “I told them we’d be ready to beam back in two hours, so we don’t have much time. Come on.”

They exited the cabin straight into lush, albeit sparse forest. The cabin was enclosed in a glass dome built so close, it nearly touched its roof. When they exited, Sirak turned to find that the cabin had disappeared, masked by a holographic display, presumably generated by the dome. “Fascinating,” he remarked, following Inira through a path she clearly recognized, though he would not be able to pick it out of the brush. The patch of trees was unexpectedly bright; though he did not know precisely how deep the forest was, he knew the edge could not be far, given how easily sunlight infiltrated its web of branches. Before long, he heard the water rushing.

After thirty-five minutes and twenty-seven seconds, they reached a clearing and Inira crouched in a grassy outcropping, behind the shelter of low bushes. She beckoned him with a wave and he crouched beside her, aware of their shoulders touching and how her breath came quicker than usual, her heart rate slightly elevated by their hike. She pointed between the leaves.

A winding river stretched just beyond them, its water brown with soil, its banks a muddy red. He followed her finger down the river to what appeared to him, from this distance, as a very slow moving stream of Earth rodents, not unlike the ones he saw scurrying through the streets late at night in Nairobi. They were not, however.

They were nearly half a mile downstream, and were in fact great horned beasts, gathered together in a tight herd. Even from this distance he could hear their collective snorts and wails, the violent splashing sounds they made as they leapt into the water. Their wet coats gleamed in the late afternoon light.

“Wildebeests,” Inira explained. “They can’t be found anywhere outside this region anymore. They migrate with the seasons, following the same circle generation after generation.”

“Remarkable,” Sirak replied, and he truly meant it. The climate on Vulcan allowed neither diverse nor abundant wildlife. What it did have tended to be reclusive, choosing not to be so exposed in the hot hours of day. He had never before witnessed a concentration of animals so large and in such quantity.

“Beautiful,” Inira corrected, lowering her voice. “They don’t know anything about the Federation or Vulcan or even that there is anything beyond these plains. This is the way they’ve lived for thousands of years.”

They watched the creatures move in silence for a long moment before Sirak said, quietly, “Diverse experiences indeed.” He let his shoulder lean into hers, the touch continuing down their arms until the backs of their hands brushed.

He felt Inira shift and knew before he turned that she was looking at him. They were lost briefly in the exhilaration passing between their hands, amplified by their meeting gazes. From this close, he could see every lash that framed Inira’s dark eyes, the places on her lips where her skin was dried or broken. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his, and he closed his eyes, letting her warmth infect him.

“Do you have to go?” she whispered.

“No,” he said, because Vulcans do not lie.

“Then don’t.” The tip of her nose brushed his.

“It would be inadvisable for me to stay. I have my vows, and as you have said, you have yours.” Despite his words, he moved closer still, until he could feel her exhale on his lips.

“Then let’s imagine, just for now, that there is nothing beyond these plains.”

In his precarious emotional state, Sirak did not need any more encouragement. His fingers worked against hers in motions he had not used in a long time—nearly seven years, to be precise. He felt her shiver in response, and did not pull away when she closed the space between their lips.

So this was what they called ‘a human kiss’.

The act was not nearly as unpleasant as its description made him believe. The warm pressure of her mouth against his gave him similar sensations as the hands connected between them. He did not mind when her tongue slid against his lips—rather, he found himself parting them to let her in. Though it was wetter than he anticipated, he found the moisture and tangy flavor inside her mouth stimulating. He leaned into it, and she tilted her head to meet his lips more fully.

They broke off just long enough to search each others eyes and see their own concerns mirrored. “This is a bad idea,” Inira said in barely a whisper.

“As I said, it is inadvisable,” he replied in kind. Even then, their lips found each other again.

The intimacy he felt with her was unlike any he had experienced before, even during far more sexual encounters. There was a veil of affection that coated their gentle, tentative explorations. Though they kneeled at that river bank kissing for only minutes, when Sirak stood up and watched Inira’s languid gait walk back towards the forest, he felt that he was marked irreversibly.


	9. or if your wish be to close me,i and

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wound up being a little more straightforward; looking forward to writing more nature scenes next time.

When Sarek slid into the sleek black Federation transport vehicle, he noted from the date and time on the dashboard that it had been exactly six days and 4 minutes and 20 seconds since Amanda Grayson had attempted correspondence with him. He paused a moment before telling the navigation to “Proceed to destination.” The car reversed out of its parking space and slid easily into the passing traffic in San Francisco, heading towards the preprogrammed location of Sarek’s next meeting. Before long, the car stalled in city traffic. As he waited, Sarek allowed himself a moment to ruminate on the reasons why he found this break in communication disquieting.

While there was no particular reason for them to be in contact—he had finished his assessment of Amanda’s course, they had completed their adjustments to her curriculum, and the exchange program had progressed from planning to logistics, which required more interaction with Starfleet Academy’s administrative offices than its xenolinguistics department—around the middle of each day this week, when humans typically took their extra meal, he looked expectantly at the temporary communicator he was issued for his stay on Earth, but no call came.

Sarek concluded that this development was most certainly due to his carelessness. He had noticed a change in Amanda’s behavior in the two times they met after their visit to the Redwood National Park. She avoided his gaze whenever possible, kept a careful distance from him. She did not walk around the table and lean over his shoulder so they could look at a PADD together, nor did she suggest they take a meal or go for a stroll after their meeting in order to continue conversing. They saw each other in her office and she sat across her desk from him the entire time, her eyes carefully trained on her notes.

Several times, he considered approaching her with the subject of their accidental intimate contact in the forest, and requesting that she state clearly whether or not it had offended her. It was a perplexing human habit—to say one thing while indicating contrary feelings with their demeanor. If humans wished to experience and express their every emotion without restraint, he thought it might have been logical to at least do so honestly, and speak in alignment with their feelings.

But of course, he had been a scientist, a diplomat, and finally, an ambassador for a long time. He knew well that humans had a profound ability to behave illogically. To point this out generally only increased offense.

He surely did not want to offend Amanda any further. He disliked the loss of her company. In its absence he had begun to wonder how he had gone decades without ever having an informal relationship with a human. It was statistically unlikely, given his frequent proximity to the species. He realized that it must have been an unconscious effort on his part, to remain distant. They were fragile, flighty creatures. The diplomatic situation he was currently facing was testament to this. Amanda somehow managed to be different. Perhaps the daily hostility he faced had softened him, rendered him more vulnerable than he expected.

Maybe it was because she spoke his tongue so well. She knew the songs sung to him by his mother, the literature he had grown up reading. Conversation with her had a unique ease. His thoughts continued, almost unwillingly, along these justifications, until the car stopped abruptly with the word, “Destination.”

Sarek exited the vehicle, which then zipped away to find a Federation designated parking zone. He faced a ring of stone half-built around a towering metal skeleton of building. Its architectural style stood out from the surrounding structures; it was not of this world, but rather a style Sarek was infinitely more familiar with.

A tall Vulcan with graying hair stood at the entrance to the construction site. When he spotted Sarek approaching, he raised his hand in a Vulcan salute.

“ _Ambassador_ ,” he said in Vulcan once they were within earshot.

Sarek raised his own hand in a salute. “ _Sirak, I presume?_ ”

The man clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “ _An honor to make your acquaintance._ ”

The two Vulcans turned to the building growing before them, construction drones flitting around it like flies. They calmly discussed the progress of construction, the arrangements for the building’s opening ceremony.

“ _Are you quite certain that you wish to remain on Earth as a priest of this temple?_ ” Sarek asked at last. He had never heard of a Vulcan priest who would wish to remain so far from the homeland. He felt it necessary to speak in person about the matter, in case Sirak’s decision was influenced by any political pressures. He did not want to be responsible for displacing one of his own kind unwillingly.

Sirak raised his eyebrows, and a clear expression of amusement crossed his face. Sarek felt himself stand straighter, taken aback by an emotional display by a Vulcan priest. After dedicating a lifetime to Surak’s teachings and undergoing _kolinahr_ , most were wholly incapable of feeling emotion, let alone showing it. Sirak turned back to the stark beams crisscrossing against the blue sky. “Do not concern yourself, Ambassador,” Sirak said, switching suddenly to Earth Standard. “I have lived on this planet for decades now. I was exiled from Vulcan long ago.”

Sarek did not have a response for this unexpected information.

“It is not a matter of public record.” Sirak explained, understanding his silence. “But I can assure you I am quite capable as a priest. I am well-versed in Surak’s teachings, as well as the worship of the Old Gods. I have mastered all of the required rituals and forms of meditation, and the most complex techniques of the mind. Before my trial, I completed nearly all of my training, with the exception of—”

“ _Kolinahr_ ,” Sarek supplied.

“Correct. But I believe that is appropriate, when continuing my work amongst such an emotionally driven planet.”

“Logical.” Sarek did not ask about the terms of Sirak’s exile. It was rare for a priest to be dishonored in such a way. The fact that it was not on public record indicated that the situation was a deeply personal matter.

Sirak turned to Sarek and said, slowly, “You are troubled.”

Sarek tucked his hands behind his back and said, “You are mistaken. I trust the Vulcan Elders and Federation Council’s decision to appoint you for this position, and do not—”

“And yet, I sense that you are troubled.” Sirak interrupted, and Sarek stared at him for a long time. Sirak raised an eyebrow. “As I said, I am quite adept with techniques of the mind.”

Sarek considered confiding in this priest. While he was not in the habit of speaking openly about emotional subjects, he also knew that part of a priest’s duties was to provide counsel on such matters. It may also be an appropriate gesture of trust, to assure Sirak that he does not have reservations about his appointment to the temple under construction before them. “I may have offended a human acquaintance,” he admitted. “I have been preoccupied by my desire to make amends, and my inability to devise an appropriate method of doing so.”

“Ah, yes. A common occurrence.” Sirak nodded “A professional matter? The climate on this planet has been… hostile, as of late.”

Sarek did not have an immediate response. Was the conflict between himself and Amanda a professional matter? Certainly, they had a professional relationship. Informal, but never outside the realm of professional. Yet he thought back to their walk through the woods and knew instinctively that their interactions on that evening were not professional, which is why when their hands met, they had stumbled into a moment that was undeniably intimate. “It is a personal matter,” he said finally.

Sirak studied him. “I am sure you know that humans can be difficult, but they put great value and attention in personal relationships. I would recommend that you put less thought and reason into your apology. Their kind is more appreciative of sentiment than precision.”

Sarek knew this, and he suspected that Sirak was aware that his statements were obvious. It made Sarek’s concerns appear foolish and illogical. Perhaps they were. He was always straightforward, even with humans, so why should this be any different?

He changed the subject quickly, asking after the artisans who were in the midst of crafting the statues of the Old Gods that stood at the center of the unfinished building. Sirak expressed safety concerns for the craftsmen—they were being subjected to escalating harassment by an anti-Vulcan youth group that operated nearby. One was very close to threatening resignation. Sarek promised to send in a request for Starfleet security officers to guard the area while they worked. They concluded their meeting and Sarek directed his car to Starfleet Academy campus. He knew Amanda would be concluding her last class within the hour, and though he had yet to write up a report on his meeting with Sirak, he was determined to resolve whatever misunderstanding they might have had as soon as possible. It was taking up far too much of his mental energy.

Her office was empty when he arrived. He waited outside the doorway for 14 minutes and 23 seconds before he determined that it was unlikely that she would return. He did not know where she lived. Unlike other Academy instructors, she would not reside in the officers’ quarters, and presumably lived in a civilian residence in a nearby neighborhood of San Francisco. He could reference her file for the precise address, but that would be an unjustified invasion of her privacy and in any case, it would be inappropriate for him to suddenly appear at her doorstep without prior notice. He wondered briefly what kind of expression she would make if he did so—would her eyes brighten as they did whenever he encountered her on campus by chance? Not likely, considering the recent strain in their relationship. He pictured then the way her eyebrows drew in until her brow wrinkled whenever she was frustrated. The image displeased him.

At last, he resigned himself to postponing the confrontation and began making his way back through campus. He had just left the gates when he spotted her across the street, sitting alone at a bus stop with her legs crossed, engrossed in reading something on her PADD. He waited for the traffic to stop, and then wove a direct path between the cars until he as standing before her. Bewildered gazes followed his figure through windshields and passenger windows. Amanda herself did not notice his approach until his long shadow fell over her.

When she looked up at him, her expression was neither pleasant nor displeased—her eyebrows shot up in alarm. Sarek tucked his hands behind his back and said a curt, “Good afternoon, Amanda.”

“Sarek… what…”

“You were not in your office.”

She placed her PADD face down on her lap and said, “I was about to head home. Can I help you with something?”

Sarek paused to survey their position. Though the bus stop was empty, there were still people milling about the streets, each one watching him intently as they passed, with varying degrees of discretion. “Are you currently occupied, or would you accompany me to a more private location? I wish to discuss… a personal matter.”

Amanda’s eyes slipped to her lap, where her two fingers found each other on the overturned PADD and began to fidget. “I really think I should be getting home. Maybe you can send me a transmission?”

“I would rather speak in person.”

“Then, just… tell me here.”

Sarek glanced around once more before saying, “Very well. If that is what you prefer.” He turned his gaze back to her. “You are avoiding me.”

He saw her cheeks flush, her fingers becoming more agitated on her knees. “I’m… well… not really…” she said without looking up.

“Though I do not express my own emotions, I am not blind to others’. Especially not yours, given our frequent interactions and your remarkably versatile ability to display your thoughts and feelings with facial expressions.”

Amanda’s face went from light pink to brilliant red. “I don’t—”

“Have I offended you in any way?”

Amanda sighed and squeezed her eyes shut, raising one hand to her forehead as she said a very firm “ _No_.”

“Then what is the source of your discomfort? Have you been experiencing an increase in harassment due to our association?” Sarek had not been able to erase the image of her desk etched with unkind words. Though he had sent out a request for more effective campus security, he was met with vexatious bureaucratic inefficacies that he often observed humans employing to purposefully slow administrative progress on matters they disagreed with.

“No, no.” Amanda waved away the suggestion with her hand. “I just… think we should have some distance.”

Sirak nodded. “You have come to find my company disagreeable.”

“Oh god, _no!”_ Amanda buried her face in her hands in an attempt to hide her expression.

“I do not understand.” A long silence passed, filled by honking cars and the distant chatter of cadets walking in and out of the campus gates. “… did you find our interaction in Redwood National Park disconcerting?” Sarek wondered if he should attempt another apology for his carelessness.

“No… I mean… well, actually, that’s part of it.” Amanda looked up and over Sarek’s shoulder. Her eyes fixed on something beyond him and she slid her PADD into her purse and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my bus is arriving.”

Sarek was bordering on frustration as Amanda walked past him towards the curb. She emerged from the shade of the bus stop’s awnings into a swath of afternoon light that set her skin aglow. He thought she composed a compelling picture, her hair stirred by passing cars, one hand shading her eyes as she gazed into the oncoming traffic. The thought of letting her walk away without explanation drew an unexpectedly forthright admission from him. “Amanda… I have come to value the time we spend together. I understand if you disagree, but I would prefer to know the errors in my behavior so that I do not repeat them in future.”

Amanda threw up her arms and suddenly faced him with a raised voice. “It’s not you, don’t you get it? It’s _me_ , it’s all me. So just… don’t worry about it.” Her tone increased in pitch as she spoke.

“Are you well?” Sarek frowned.

“Yes!” She started laughing then, only augmenting his confusion.

“I do not understand,” he repeated.

“ _Please_ , don’t make me say it.”

“I do not intend to force you into anything. I am simply admitting my inability to comprehend your behavior.”

The bus was closing in on them, slowing now and waiting for the light to change so it could pull into its designated space. Amanda crossed her arms over her chest and said, in a surprisingly clear voice, “Fine. If you really must know, I find you intelligent and attractive, I rather enjoy the time we spend together, and I might be suffering the inconvenient experience of falling in love with you.”

Sarek was well-known for his ability to anticipate every situation—it was part of what made him an excellent diplomat. He had considered many possibilities that might explain Amanda’s behavior, but this was one circumstance that had not crossed his mind, not even once. He found himself temporarily at a loss for words.

In his silence the bus came to a stop in front of Amanda and she took one step through its open doors before turning back towards him. “Sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but you’re the one who insisted. I’ll see you at our next meeting. Live long and prosper, Sarek.”

The bus doors snapped shut behind her before he could so much as raise his hand in salute. He stood in the sun for much longer than necessary, turning her words over in his mind. For the first time in many years, he had no idea what to do next.


	10. my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

Sometimes Spock was sure he could perceive Nyota’s presence when she walked into a room, his senses tuned to her very being. The light tread of her feet, the patterns of her breath. The light sandalwood fragrance, the scent of her skin. The swish of her hair against the fabric of her uniform.

It was unsurprising then, when he felt the inexplicable need to pause his workout routine even before he looked up to see her entering the training room. She began approaching the various machines in the resistance training area when their eyes met. Her hair was wet, presumably from a swim, pulled into a slick ponytail behind her. She stopped in her tracks and pursed her lips. She seemed to change her mind, turning towards the treadmills instead.

Spock tried to ignore her presence, continuing his routine as always. However, after his intervals, he generally concluded his visit to the athletic facilities with a short run. To his dismay, when he approached the treadmills, he realized that, because it was a busy hour in the training room, all but the one beside Nyota’s was occupied. He hesitated.

Spock disliked disrupting routines of any kind. He briefly considered taking his run outside, but he had a meeting to attend in less than an hour and needed to shower beforehand. He considered skipping his run altogether, but his physical conditioning routines were precise and followed faithfully, and any deviation might result in unwelcome aches or strains. At last, concerned that this last open machine might become occupied while he stood there pondering the best course of action, he stepped forward to claim the treadmill.

Nyota’s gaze flicked towards him once quickly. Spock slid his ID badge into the machine and chose one of his preprogrammed pace settings. He tried his best to keep his gaze forward. The treadmills faced a glass paneled wall that offered a view of the pool on the floor below. He watched the little figures splashing from one end to the other, little flecks cutting white streaks into the blue surface of each lane.

Even then, he could not help but be distracted by the scent of pool sterilization agents that still clung to Nyota, the rhythm of her sneakers, the flick of her ponytail in his peripheral vision. He hazarded a glance in her direction and found that she was watching him.

Her face flushed and she turned to the window. “You keep a quick pace, Commander,” she said between breaths.

“I have more stamina than the average human,” Spock replied, turning his head to look at her. This was an unwise decision: he was able to get a full view of the fine sheen of sweat on her neck and the curves of her muscles in her tight-fitting training clothes.

She raised an eyebrow and tapped the control panel on her machine to increase its pace to match his. “Let’s see.”

“I would not recommend it.” Spock’s pace automatically increased according to his program. Nyota tapped her machine to match it. Her breath quickened. Spock looked forward again, but the sound traced the shell of his ear. He pictured clearly the way her lips parted at each exhale, the trail of sweat escaping her wet hairline and trailing down her spine. He found his own breath coming short, despite the mild pace he used for his end-of-workout jog. The pool below became an unfocused imagining of Nyota’s body gleaming wet, her dripping profile, her chest rising and falling in time with her breath in his ear. Spock cancelled his routine abruptly and stepped off the machine.

“Done?” Nyota stopped her machine and leaned against it, panting.

“That will be sufficient.” He pocketed his ID.

They stared at each other for a long moment. This was the longest exchange they’d had since their escapade to the Grand Canyon two weeks ago. They had not even conversed over transmissions—Spock continued to send Nyota articles but she had not responded to a single message. The summer semester was quickly nearing its end, but Spock was convinced that even after its conclusion, Nyota would not want to resume exploring an intimate relationship with him. Or any relationship, for that matter. He was fairly certain that he had irreversibly damaged whatever friendship they had managed to cultivate. Given their current status as student and instructor, he could not ask her anything directly or attempt to make amends as long as she refused to speak to him. It was made clear by Starfleet that all Academy calls and transmissions were archived in the event of a security breach, and he did not want to leave any traces that could be cause for suspicion or misunderstanding. Yet when he tried to approach her on campus, she walked pointedly in the opposite direction until he lost sight of her among a smattering of passing red uniforms.

There were certainly telltale signs of displeasure—perhaps even anger—in the way she tilted her head and looked at him with narrowed eyes under the white lights of the training room. He tried to keep his gaze on her face but it wandered over her body of its own accord, and he had to resist the urge to close his eyes.

He had been feeling almost ill in the past couple of weeks. The longer he went being neither bonded to a partner, nor in Nyota’s presence, the more he felt his mind and body separating, losing synchronicity. His appetite lost its moderation—sometimes he would go days without sustenance, and sometimes he was suddenly ravenous. Meditation often resulted in his mind consuming him, leaving him in a reverie that took such discipline to break, he felt fatigued rather than refreshed afterwards. He could no longer regulate his sleep, and found that he needed to set an alarm to wake at the correct hour each morning.

He dreamed for the first time in over a decade, wandering lost in the Vulcan desert, drowning in the Earth’s tumultuous sea, clawing off Nyota’s uniform under the blazing afternoon sun. He woke sweating, panting, frightened and aroused at once.

He turned from her without another word, walking briskly toward the locker rooms. He heard her follow, his sharp ears knowing, unwillingly, the unique sound of her footfalls. He turned the corner into the row of lockers where he kept his belongings. It was empty, though he could hear showers running in the next room. Nyota turned the corner as he slid his ID into its reader. The locker slid open and he rummaged through his bag for a towel. When he looked up, she was standing before him, leaning her shoulder against a locker three units away from his.

“Can I help you, cadet?” he asked, clutching his towel in a tight grip.

“Spock.” Her voice was low. “I’m sorry.”

“I do not understand what you have to apologize for.” He wanted to ignore her, walk past her towards the showers, but he could not.

She bit her lip. “I admit I’ve been avoiding you.”

“That is obvious.”

“I just thought it would be best… I mean, that’s what you wanted, right?” She began to fidget with her fingernails, an action she engaged in often when she was agitated.

“It is the most prudent arrangement.” He felt the towel crumple under his tight grip.

“Then… well,” she sighed. “Stop looking like that.”

“I do not understand.”

“So lonely.”

He did not have a ready response for this. Vulcans did not lie unless absolutely necessary, and in truth he was quite alone without her. They were both aware that she was his only friend. His interactions with his colleagues and transmissions with his mother could not fulfill the same function. He wished he could return to his previous state of complacency in solitude. Once he knew companionship, the empty spaces in his life became blatant without it.

“Please do not concern yourself. Perhaps…” he knew before he spoke that this was a very optimistic request: “Perhaps we could continue this conversation when the semester has concluded.”

Nyota looked down and didn’t answer right away. “Perhaps,” she said at last, and his relief was nearly overwhelming.

He nodded quickly and began to walk past her. Her hand caught his forearm with a light graze just as they were side-by-side. He stopped, and she let her touch linger and trail down until her fingers rested on his wrist. He turned his head slightly and caught her gaze as she looked up at him. There was something in her expression that he knew perfectly well—the same emotions that assaulted his mind when he mediated: affection, confusion, longing, desire. He ached with it.

Everything went blank for moment and then suddenly his towel was on the floor and the lockers rattled behind Nyota’s back as they kissed desperately, feverishly. Her hands gripped his sides and clawed at his shirt, his hands were on her face, neck, waist, breast. They fumbled with each other’s bodies, trying to imprint every touch. She tasted like the salt from her sweat and the tang of pool chemicals. He heard a door and the quick slaps of bare feet as someone began exiting the showers.

Reluctantly, he pulled back and pressed their foreheads together, panting. “I am sorry. I—” Nyota stopped him with a quick kiss before he could recite unnecessary apologies.

“You’re a real mess, Commander,” she said, opening her eyes and training her black pupils on him. “I mean, I’m not any better, but I never expected it from _you_ of all people. Are you sure everything is okay?”

“There are things I would like to tell you—or perhaps more accurately, things I need to tell you. You may not find them entirely agreeable.” She blinked expectantly. The footsteps grew closer. “But I believe they should wait until the semester concludes.” He exhaled and stepped away from her, walking towards the showers without another word. On his way he met an Andorian cadet wrapped in a towel—one he recognized as Cadet Valdez’s companion from the night at the Grand Canyon. She followed him with her eyes as he walked past, and he knew that she would meet Cadet Uhura as soon as she turned into the locker room. He walked faster.

* * *

Spock scanned the temple for Sirak’s lean silhouette, but the old Vulcan was nowhere to be seen. He approached one of the priests and asked him, in a low voice, if he was serving in the temple that day. The stouter Vulcan shook his head and explained that Sirak had lately taken ill, and would not be performing his duties as usual for some time.

Spock’s brow furrowed. He wondered about the nature of Sirak’s illness. He had never asked his age, but could assess from the curve of his spine and the thinning head of entirely white hair that he was easily over 150. Just as he was about to search for an unoccupied pocket of the curtained meditation rooms, the third priest—the one who often played ka’athyra in the temple—approached him with his instrument tucked into his elbow.

“Spock, son of Sarek?” he asked, raising his hand in a salute.

Spock nodded and returned it. “Can I help you?”

“I was instructed to give you Sirak’s hospitalization information.” The priest handed him a chip. Spock accepted it with a twinge of concern. Hospitalization indicated a more serious ailment. “He requested that you visit him at your earliest opportunity,” the second priest continued. “Visiting hours are included in that data chip.”

“Thank you.” Spock nodded, pocketing the chip.

“ _Live long and prosper_ ,” the priest said in Vulcan.

“ _Peace and long life_ ,” Spock replied.

Spock decided to forgo meditation in favor of visiting Sirak in the hospital. The medical facility was a short ground transport ride away. The San Francisco Starfleet Medical Center was a ring of slick metal towers built on the site of the old San Francisco General Hospital, interconnected by a series of glass walkways, with an open, tree-lined courtyard for patients to get fresh air. Spock had spent a semester at one of its facilities, working on some xenobiological research as a prerequisite to becoming a science officer—though he was never quite as interested in the organic sciences as he was in chemistry, physics, and linguistics (which he considered to be a science, though some might disagree). Still, he had not set foot on the campus in quite some time, not since before his last assignment, before his tenure as an instructor at the academy.

He entered the hospital room and found Sirak lying with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest, a sheet tucked neatly around him. He opened his eyes as Spock approached his bedside, turning his head just slightly. “I’ve been expecting you. Please,” he raised his hand weakly to gesture towards a chair sitting at an angle by his bed. “Have a seat.”

Spock pulled the chair closer and sat down. “How is your health?” he asked tentatively.

Sirak’s lips curled into a grimace. “Not well. My body and mind are fatigued.”

“If you do not mind me asking, what is the nature of your illness?”

Sirak raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Time. Nothing extraordinary.”

Spock was silent, unsure of how to reply.

“That expression of concern is very human of you.” A flash of amusement crossed Sirak’s face. “Your eyes are quite like your mother’s.”

“You are acquainted with her?”

“I met her the same year she met your father. She is a remarkable woman.”

Spock let a small smile light his face. “She is.” After a short pause filled by the beeps and hums of the various medical devices surrounding Sirak, he asked, “Can I help you in any way?”

“Yes, of course. I am sure you are wondering why I called you here.”

“I am.”

“I would like to request that you meld with me, if you do not find it to be too much of a burden.”

Spock blinked in surprise at the sudden intimate request. “Are you certain?”

“At this age, one finds oneself certain of everything, however misguided that certainty might be. I do not wish to share my entire mind with you, but there is a part of my life that has remained only mine. I do not want it to die with me.”

“I do not understand. Our acquaintance has been brief, and though I have shared my mind with you in counsel, I do not believe I have earned such confidence from you.”

“It is a time very few will understand, memories that I believe will benefit you most out of any person I know.” He waved Spock closer. “Come.” He gestured to his face.

Spock leaned forward, resting one elbow on the edge of the bed as he reached his other arm forward so that he could place his hand in the correct configuration on Sirak’s face.

In an instant he heard a voice singing in a language he was only beginning to understand, saw the flutter of red fabric and felt the press of humid air on his clothes. A coppery skin tone he recognized, cheekbones that bore racial resemblance to Nyota’s. Dark eyes and a melodic laugh, a symphony of words in accented standard and accented Vulcan that spread warmth through his chest. _“What about yearning?”_ it asked. Rain on his skin, a damp yellow flower clinging to a thick braid. Fingers tracing his forehead. A flurry of emotions—confusion, intrigue, affection. An overcast day, a herd of great beasts he recognized from his study of endangered Earth species, a kiss long and lingering. A frenzy of heat and confusion, his blood running hot in his veins, thunder, hard rain and the tumble of skin on skin. A third mind, bright and distinct, a wild tangle of rich feeling he only just brushed his fingers through. He saw her clearly now: a woman with warm brown eyes and a brilliant smile that felt familiar. _“Come back to me,”_ she said, and his chest filled with a culmination of emotions he did not want to suppress—that he gave himself wholly to. He would relinquish every other experience if he could just return to her.

Spock broke the connection gasping, shocked to find his face wet. He sat breathing heavily for a moment, Sirak watching him with his usual serene expression.

“I apologize,” Sirak said. “I have overwhelmed you.”

Spock wiped his eyes clumsily with his sleeve. “No, I am the one who should apologize. I was not expecting…” he trailed off as words failed him.

Sirak looked away as Spock composed himself. “Do not recoil from strong emotions, Spock. Learn to understand and master them.”

“I do not understand why you have chosen to share this with me. It was more personal than I expected.”

Sirak raised an eyebrow. “I do not believe the emotions I shared with you were entirely unfamiliar.”

Spock looked down, clasping his hands in his lap.

“Moreover, it was a selfish request. I wanted someone to remember her as I did.”

“She was beautiful,” Spock said quietly.

Sirak’s face became wistful. “Quite like your cadet, was she not?”

“In some ways.”

“The universe is a strange thing. So vast, yet so connected.”

“The universe may be vast, but this planet is quite small.”

Sirak looked at Spock with smile as wide as he had ever seen on a Vulcan. Spock realized with a pang that he must truly be quite ill. “And our time is very short. Now, I must rest.”

Spock stood. “Of course.”

“Live long and prosper, Spock.” Sirak raised a trembling salute.

Spock returned it. “Peace and long life, Sirak.”

Sirak gave him a mournful expression. “Long, indeed.” He lay back and closed his eyes.

* * *

The days were getting shorter. Spock sat in his quarters for a long time after he returned from the hospital, watching his apartment fall into shadow. He could not shake the old Vulcan’s memories from his mind. The strength and vivid colors lingered, clinging to his consciousness.

He stared at the chess set on his table, which lay untouched for some time. He remembered the last time he and Nyota played together, when the set was still in his former office in communications. He had been distracted by the way the sun played on her smooth hair, and allowed his concentration to slip from the game. It was the only time she had managed to defeat him at a game. He realized then that he was very much in danger of something, though at the time it remained nameless. This was, of course, before she had kissed him, before he could have even imagined that she returned his feelings. She had jumped up in excitement at her victory, laughing and crying out, _“Finally!”_

He reached over and touched the white queen, which had secured her victory. He picked it up.

The evening air was on his face before he could think twice, and he was crossing the campus in quick, determined strides. His meld with Sirak had left the world looking fresh and saturated, enriched temporarily by the perspective of an older, wiser mind. His reservations seemed small now, given the stretch of time he had felt between the present and the time of Sirak’s memories.

He was climbing up the steps to the cadets’ quarters when, to his surprise, Nyota emerged from the entrance. “Spock!” She was also evidently surprised to see him. She glanced around, but the quad was empty, save for two cadets entering a building on the other side.

“There is something I must confess,” Spock said breathlessly. “I thought I would wait until the end of the semester, that there might be a better time, but I realize that I was being evasive.”

“Did you—” Nyota began, but Spock interrupted her before he could lose this streak of boldness.

“I love you.”

Nyota’s mouth remained half-open, and her eyebrows flew up. “W-what?” she said in almost a whisper.

“I believe those are the words that humans use to express what I feel towards you.”

Nyota’s face flushed and she began to fidget. “I… that’s…”

Spock’s adrenaline began to subside and he felt traces of humiliation replacing it. “I apologize if you find my declaration disagreeable. It does not necessitate—”

“No!” she said quickly, her eyes widening. “I’m… I mean… I’m happy but… I wasn’t expecting… Also, the timing.”

Spock tucked his hands behind his back and took a step backwards. “I should have waited until after the semester’s conclusion.”

Her eyebrows drew in. “Wait, did you not get the transmission?”

“Transmission?”

She pulled a PADD out of her small bag. After tapping it a few times she turned the screen towards him. “It’s a summons from the Academy for a disciplinary hearing. _Your_ disciplinary hearing.”

Spock eyes darted over the message. He had not checked his own messages since before he went to the training facilities earlier that day. _Misconduct_ , it read in crisp Starfleet font.

“I was not aware,” he said quietly.

“It’s okay, I—”

“I should not be here,” he replied, looking around. “They will be monitoring me.”

Nyota slid the PADD back into her bag. “Spock…”

He reached forward and took one of her hands. He pulled the white queen from his pocket and pressed it into her palm. “It is not your fault,” he said firmly. “I will take full responsibility for whatever consequences may arise.”

Spock turned and walked back down the stairs before Nyota could respond, unaware of how long she would stand there, clutching the slim glass piece to her chest.


	11. as when the heart of this flower imagines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rises from the dead* Hello! Returning to this after a very busy summer. Probably nobody is still reading but if anyone is, I'm back!!

Sirak woke to the sound of thunder. He was lying on the floor, tangled in his robe, sweating. Rain poured in sheets outside. It took a moment for him to recollect where he was. He emerged with effort from fitful dreams and the world was hazy, as though concealed by a gauzy curtain.

After parting ways with Inira, Sirak had immediately cancelled his travel plans to schedule himself for the next available transport to Vulcan. He was surprised to find that all transportation out of Nairobi had been cancelled that afternoon.

“There’s a big storm coming,” his contact at the embassy explained. “We’re looking at a weeklong transportation halt.”

Sirak could not imagine what kind of weather could warrant such drastic measures, but by then the sky had already darkened and the trees outside had begun to thrash violently in the gathering winds.

The next day, he noted an elevated heart rate and temperature, found himself increasingly agitated. After extending his stay at the front desk, he encountered the Vulcan xenozoologist in the hallway. He was surprised to see Sirak. “I thought you would have departed by now,” he said, pausing his stride, to which Sirak responded with a gruff, “That is not your concern.” The zoologist raised his eyebrows and studied Sirak’s countenance, no doubt noticing his flushed skin, slightly dilated pupils.

“Very well,” he said before continuing down the hallway.

Sirak had returned to his room and gone directly to bed. He dreamt of tearing the zoologist’s throat with his fingernails, of tearing off Inira’s clothing with his teeth.

Now he sat up panting, the storm fully underway, the floor beneath him warm from his own hot flesh. He stumbled to his console and found that he had been asleep nearly 36 hours. His thoughts came to him sticky and jumbled, and he kneeled in front of his desk for long, scattered moments, unsure of what to do with himself. He checked his vitals again, and found that his temperature was climbing to dangerous heights.

If he could not return to Vulcan soon, he would die.

Frustration surged through him and he grasped for the closest object—his chair—and flung it into the wall. A small dent appeared where the chair had made contact, and he felt suddenly enclosed in the tight lodgings, its four walls suffocating. He stripped off his robe and reached into the little dresser to find it empty, his palm pressing flat against the bottom of the drawer. He growled and yanked out every drawer, scattering them on the floor around him. He took out the first garment from his neatly packed suitcase and pulled it on clumsily, his hands shaking. He had to get out before he alarmed his neighbors or broke something. He could not trust himself.

The woman in the lobby tried to stop Sirak from leaving the hostel, even walking around the desk to chase him to the door, but he ignored her and pushed into the downpour.

This was the emptiest Sirak had ever seen the streets of Nairobi. Not even the rats and stray cats stirred. The roads were streaked with streams of water, merging and splitting away from each other, feeding into rippling pools where the asphalt dipped. He was soaked almost immediately, but the burning within him remained inextinguishable.

He walked blindly through the city, his body slipping in and out of his control. His moments of lucid thought became fewer and further between. When he did return to himself, his mind was drenched in fear. Was this it? Did the end come in this way for all creatures? Alone in a foreign land he tried to accept the inevitability of it, put his mind at peace, but it was nearly impossible with the fever coursing through his veins.

He had one last clear thought before it overtook his mind, which sent him on a singular path to the national park—a fitting place to meet his end, he thought, somewhere beautiful rather than ankle deep in urban murk.

If he was thinking of Inira when he made this decision, he was not aware of it. He recalled little of how he got there. He did not remember at all the scene he caused with the resident researcher who tried to stop him from entering the park, shoving him aside with unrestrained Vulcan strength, leaving the man sitting in the mud, stunned for several moments before at last calling the director to report that his Vulcan xenozoologist had lost his mind.

The Vulcan xenozoologist picked up his comm at the hostel to Inira’s irate and puzzled father, but denied ever leaving his room. It would have been highly illogical to do so, given the state of the weather. After a moment’s thought, he consulted with the front desk to discover that Sirak had indeed ventured out. He relayed the information to Inira’s father, who was at the time sitting in his study, watching the rain beat the windows of his house. Inira, who was staying with her parents for the duration of the storm, with both classes and work cancelled until the weather became more manageable, had at the time walked in holding a cup of tea for each of them.

“You won't believe this,” he told her as she handed him the steaming cup. “A Vulcan priest is trying to drown himself in this storm.”

Inira had to beg her father to allow her to brave the weather in pursuit of Sirak. “He’ll listen to me,” she implored. “He is my friend. I'll reason with him.”

He wanted to accompany her. He could not approve of the idea of his daughter venturing into a dangerous storm, chasing after a Vulcan stranger who may have lost his mind—who may have been violent, even.

But Inira insisted on going alone. He did not have the power to stop his daughter, who was single-minded and determined, the fiercest person he knew. When she was young, if he forbade her from going out somewhere, she would sneak out her window at the first opportunity. Now, as an adult, what could he tell her? He pressed a comm in her hand and wrapped her in his own raincoat, which reached past her knees. Communications, though choppy, were still online. He kissed her forehead, made her promise to keep a distance and turn back immediately if anything seemed out of the ordinary. She was a smart girl, and though he worried, he trusted her.

Sirak was not aware of this chain of events until much later. What he remembered was waking to the sound of rain in the shelter of a handful of trees, clustered together within the wide stretch of plains. Leaves trembling in the wind. He became vaguely aware of someone calling his name, and his gaze collided with her face, enveloped in a large, hooded cloak. Her hand was on his cheek, her eyebrows drawn together. Her hair fell forward in dripping strands, curled with moisture.

“You’re burning up!” she cried over the rain, leaning her body towards him to study his face. “What happened?”

He was far beyond the scope of words by then, but he reached for her and pulled her towards him, his fingers digging into her wet hair. He kissed her, hard. His tongue was quick in her mouth, and she did not resist for a long moment. Finally she pushed away and sat up straight.

“We have to get you to shelter. Let me help you,” she pleaded. “What’s wrong? Tell me how I can help you.”

His hands slid from her hair to her face, the tips of his fingers pressing against her temple and cheekbone. “ _ Please _ ,” he choked in Vulcan, all other tongues having left him.

“ _ I am willing to comply with any request,” _ she replied in Vulcan, leaning her face forward. Their eyes locked Sirak felt his mind clear, just briefly, in their warmth. The last thing he heard was her sharp inhale, before she enveloped him like quicksand.

Inira’s mind was a wilderness. Sirak stumbled through it, caught in its tangles and snares. Every thought forked into branches of different languages, each with a unique texture. They diverged and merged infinitely, forming a complex web. Between them, her memories bloomed in bursts of color. He felt damp grass under her bare feet, sun on her shoulders, the smell of winter air.

Inira experienced everything in technicolor. She seared his neural pathways and filled him, choked him with her intensity. It could have been moments or hours that he was lost there, clawing his way through its complex passages before he found at last, burning at her center, her heart. Not the organ, but her emotional core, raw and scorching, searching for him as he searched for her. When he touched it, his every thought was infected with its color. At that moment, he did not realize that he would be altered irrevocably. Even as he retreated from her mind, they remained connected, always touching.

“What happened?” Inira said breathlessly, clutching his soaked garments and panting.

He did not reply, simply sat straight and kissed her again, holding both her hands in his. The hum of their connection warmed their fingers, conveyed in a flash his needs, his desires. The hood of her coat fell back, as she leaned into his kiss, and soon he pushed her onto her back into the mess of mud and leaves and slid his hips between her legs. She gasped into his mouth, her face twisting with his own impatience. She unfastened his clothing with scraping fingernails, pushed it from his burning skin. He tore open the zipper on her coat, bending the metal as he yanked it apart. The dry fabric beneath quickly darkened from the rain and his wet skin crushing against her. His hand slid up her thigh, the skirt on her dress crumpling away from her hips. He yanked so hard on her underwear that the elastic snapped and it fell uselessly away. He slid his fingers inside her frantically, and she whimpered in response, opening her legs to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer still, so their chests pressed together.

Their thoughts and actions became streamlined, and at times he could not be sure if he was tugging at her limbs or the vines inside her mind. They did not even undress fully before he was inside her, and she arched her back and rocked her hips against him. Their movements were erratic, but still somehow harmonious. They made love ferociously, with a savage hunger that made them no different from any other animal lurking in the savannah. Their nails left bleeding trails as they fought and tumbled, bruising each other in a fight for dominance. Lightning shook the earth and the sky’s churn was, for the duration, a function of their sex, an echo of their bodies. When she came, he felt it under his skin, in his lungs, in the roots of his hair.

The tenderness came after, when he finished. The world reeled around him as the fever began to subside, and he was consumed by Inira, her thoughts, her body. She was gasping, and it took him a moment to realize through the rain that she was crying.

“I love you,” she choked, and then she repeated it again and again in every language she knew, as though she was afraid she would never get to say it again. He pressed his forehead into her hers and breathed in her words, inhaled them and let them settle somewhere deep inside him, where they would remain until he died.

They fell asleep briefly, cradled in each other, covered in filth but too exhausted to move right away. When Sirak awoke he was much more himself again, and with this return to rational thought, he felt a deep shame in what had transpired. Inira, waking beside him, was dirty, bruised, and bewildered. He could not help but feel that he had harmed her, and felt liable for this even though he knew it was hardly logical to hold himself accountable for his actions under the influence of blood fever.

They fixed their wet clothing without speaking and spent the car ride back to the main compound in silence. They hardly had to speak, though, to know what the other was thinking, feeling. Sirak tried his best to close his mind to her, but the connection was fresh and strong. He had inflicted something terrible on her, something she could hardly understand: the Vulcan equivalent of love—a permanent, enduring condition that took painstaking discipline to break from, which she could never sever with her own power. He would release her from it, he decided, as soon as he had rested and recollected his strength, but he did not want to.

Before they parted, she held his hand briefly, and it comforted him to feel from her no trace of resentment, only affection, though tinged with confusion. He covered her hand with his other one, and she understood that he intended to explain everything soon, once he recovered.

When he returned to the hostel after a long walk in the rain, he found the xenozoologist waiting for him in the lobby, sitting on one of the couches usually occupied by tourists studying their handheld devices and new residents waiting to be helped. That evening, the old Vulcan was the only occupant.

_ “I was nearly certain you would not return,” _ he stated when Sirak walked through door.  _ “However, I am glad that the slim probability of your survival was the outcome. Youth is resilient.” _

Sirak, wet and shivering, did not join him on the couch.  _ “I must bathe and change my garments.” _

_ “That is apparent.” _ He looked intrigued and mildly amused.  _ “Where did you find a Vulcan who would fulfill your needs?” _

Sirak felt his posture stiffen, and he began to walk towards the lift. “ _ I did not,” _ he replied without facing the other man.

The Vulcan was silent for a long moment, before he said, quietly,  _ “Fascinating. I predict you have troubled times in your future.” _

_ “I know.”  _ Sirak called the lift. He felt a touch of Inira’s thoughts, somewhere on the other side of the city as she soaked in a hot bath. A gentle peace descended on both of them in the mutual awareness that at least for now, they could not be parted. This tranquility would be short-lived.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been indulgent as heck - I've wanted to write some cheesy romantic fluff without having to deal with the restraint of the other characters in this story and so I went all out. Bless Pon Farr. I hope it was enjoyable despite being undeniably over-the-top.


	12. the snow carefully everywhere descending;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another terribly infrequent update, please forgive me. I promise that I am determined to complete this!!!

The temple rose up, a ghostly skeleton before Sarek. The newly completed statues in the center seemed to gaze directly at him in reprimand. He had not been the same since Amanda had become absent from his life. He had attempted to continue his visit to Earth as planned—he attended meetings, drew up plans for the exchange program, spoke at conferences, consulted Sirak on the progress of the temple. Though his actions and appearance were the same, his inner life felt constantly disrupted.

He thought he had harnessed this feeling before leaving Vulcan, but somehow he found himself in mourning again. It was unfathomable that a mere month’s acquaintance could affect him nearly as much as decades of intimacy. Amanda slipped unwittingly into his thoughts, and her absence felt blatant every hour they were apart.

“The craftsmanship is impeccable.” Sirak said, interrupting his reverie. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder. The season was changing prematurely that year and the air was unexpectedly brisk, especially for San Francisco. “And yet I sense that it is not the craftsmanship that you are contemplating at the moment,” Sirak continued when Sarek offered no response.

Sarek clasped his hands behind his back. “It is fine work.”

Sirak tilted his head and transitioned from Vulcan to Standard. Sarek noticed that he did this often when the subject of conversation began to stray into emotional territory uncommonly discussed by Vulcans. Sarek always found this to be an interesting habit - a sign of someone who had become truly bilingual, when he could so effortlessly, perhaps unconsciously, select the most appropriate and efficient language for the content of discourse. “You have been preoccupied of late.”

“I am aware of my own mind.” Sarek’s words became clipped with vulnerability before he could stop it. He took a breath and blinked it back.

Sirak’s raised his eyebrows. “Your youth is refreshing.”

“I am not young. I surpassed adolescence many decades ago and have completed over a third of my life span.”

“Youth is relative.”

Sarek looked Sirak in the eye. “What is your motivation in continuing these attempts to offer unsolicited guidance? I believe you are aware that most Vulcans will not welcome it, and will not be nearly as patient with it as I have.”

“Do you doubt my competence?”

“I have moments of reservation.”

“Understandable. I have not been quite fair to you, Ambassador. You are enduring many trials at the moment, and yet I have presented you with another. Do not be troubled. I am aware that my actions disturb you.” Sirak began to walk once more, continuing the survey of the perimeter that they were in the midst of before pausing at a particularly advantageous vantage point. “I am exploring a new practice—one of my own invention that would help Vulcans new to human society adjust to their method of communication and their openness with intimate topics.”

Sarek considered this for a moment before following Sirak. “Fascinating,” he replied. “I may, however, recommend a subtler approach.”

“Noted. I am still refining my technique. Your feedback is welcome.”

“You are amused.”

“I am intrigued. You are unlike any Vulcan I have met since my exile. Your mind is energetic and unexpected; it is quite stimulating.”

Sarek crossed his arms. “You are mistaken. I am not typically quite so ‘intriguing’. My mind has always been quite even. This is a recent development, and I hope, a temporary state.”

“Do not see it as a hindrance.” A cool breeze swept between them and Sirak tucked his hands into the sleeves of his thick robe. “When I was young—younger than you, even—someone wise told me that by succumbing to emotional and illogical impulses, humans allow themselves more opportunity for diverse experiences. Ironically, despite the Vulcan reverence for ‘infinite diversity in infinite combinations’, it is sometimes necessary to stray from our way in order to facilitate diversity.”

“A compelling assertion.”

“Indeed.” The corners of Sirak’s mouth curled into a slight smile. “Now, do you intend to share what your thoughts were when gazing upon the completed effigies, or shall I desist this line of inquiry?”

Sarek exhaled, and at last, surrendered. “I was considering how an acquaintance whom I have not seen in some time might find this sight.”

“Then perhaps it would be logical to abandon speculation and show her.”

* * *

Logical, yes. Simple? Surprisingly not.

Sarek had almost arrived at the Academy before he realized that it was a “weekend”—one of the two days on which humans took respite from their occupations and devoted solely to personal errand and diversion. (Vulcans, of course, did not need their time to be so predetermined—they were inherently better at independently balancing their personal and professional obligations.) After sitting in his parked transport vehicle engaged in a long inner debate, Sarek looked up Amanda’s address in the Starfleet Academy database. He reasoned that this would not be an invasion of privacy because the information had been voluntarily provided by Amanda herself to be freely viewed by those with proper access—which included Sarek, of course.

En route, unable to eschew his diplomatic habits, Sarek considered the possible outcomes of this pursuit. Amanda may be distressed to see him—she was certainly under much distress during their last interaction. He could hardly fathom her words then. He had spent long meditation periods trying to deliberate how to respond. In the end, he concluded that he was not obligated to provide any reply, because she had not solicited one. On the contrary, she seemed determined not to have any.

Yet he could not derive any satisfaction from this outcome. He could not understand it. Why would someone who is, by her own admission, “in love” with him, not wish to see him again? Especially since she did not appear to seek any reciprocation, and therefore had no reason to fear the negative emotions associated with rejection?

It was not as if he had rejected her outright, either.

Though he would, of course. If she asked.

But did not “love” necessitate that one find pleasure in another’s company? Would that not logically suggest that she would be happy to see him? Or was this conclusion a symptom of his own hopes clouding his judgment?

There was a third option: that Amanda be completely indifferent to his visit. This seemed wholly unlikely and it was the outcome Sarek least preferred; it would be unexpected to an unsettling degree.

He was surprised then, when she opened the door and stared at him for 20.5 seconds before having any reaction. He could not muster a greeting either. Amanda was dripping wet with only a towel loosely covering her chest, torso and hips before ending rather abruptly. One hand secured the cloth around her, grasping it tightly over her heart. With no makeup, her face was paler, her lips a moist pink. She had her wet hair slicked back, revealing her ears, which were fascinatingly small and round. Her skin glistened in the late afternoon light streaming through the wide hallway windows and goose bumps were already rising on her arms. A small puddle was beginning to form on the floor inside her doorway. She blinked her dark eyes once, twice, and Sarek swallowed.

He did not realize how his eyes were wandering until they caught hers, and he felt a pang of embarrassment at having looked at anything. Her entire face turned bright red, from her neck to her cheeks to tips of her nose and little ears. “S-Sarek, what—” She clutched the towel closer up to her shoulders, before thinking better of it as the opposite hem climbed further up her thighs. She fumbled with the fabric for a moment and Sarek quickly averted his eyes to the ground.

“My sincerest apologies, Amanda.” Sarek began to speak at a quick pace. “I see that I have caught you at an unideal time. I should have notified you of my intention to visit before arriving. I will call another time--”

“N-no, oh god. Sorry, um.” Amanda’s bare feet shifted uncomfortably at her threshold. Sarek felt invasive even looking at her ankles and quickly shifted his focus to the checkered tile on the hallway floor. Amanda’s voice was almost frantic. “I was in the shower and I… well, I’m expecting a package so I thought you would be a delivery drone looking for my fingerprint.”

“I see. I will come again at a time--”

“Oh, no. You came all the way here already. Just come inside and I’ll get dressed quickly.”

“If you are certain.”

“Yes,” she laughed breathlessly. “Quite… quite certain.” Despite her words, Amanda’s voice trembled.

He followed her inside, stepping carefully around the trail of damp footprints she left in her wake. Amanda’s apartment consisted of only a few rooms. They first entered a large central room with a couch, a wide console on one wall and a coffee table with a few discarded mugs and a dried clementine peel in between. A slim wood-top table with a small bowl of clementines and two chairs separated this area from a narrow tiled kitchen tucked into one corner. Beside the door was a mirror and a table scattered with odd objects—shiny tubes of makeup, keycards, stray pieces of jewelry—and past this was a short hallway into which Amanda had quickly disappeared. There was a one door on the right which was shut—Sarek could hear water running on its other side—and at the end of the hall was an open door through which Sarek glimpsed a sliver of window and a bed. A black cat was curled up atop a pile of clothes, gazing intently at him with yellow eyes.

The central room was pleasantly dipped in pink and gold. The wall opposite the entrance had a glass door that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the white-gray rooftop of a smaller adjacent building. The waning light cast rich tones onto the furniture.

Amanda stepped out of the bathroom door in a puff of steam to find Sarek still standing by the door with his hands behind his back. “Please, sit down - I’ll only be a moment!” She disappeared into her bedroom and the cat leapt off the bed and into the hallway just before the door slid shut.

Sarek looked around once more and sat stiffly on the couch, unsure of what else to do. The cat followed and sat on the coffee table, staring at him. At last, it uttered a small “Mew.” Sarek stared back at the undisciplined creature. His sehlat would never have the audacity to perch on furniture, yet it was not his place to scold an animal that did not belong to him. He could not divine the purpose in keeping such a beast; Amanda’s building was of new construction and would have no reason to contain any pests that would need to be controlled by a feline hunter. Should she choose a pet for companionship, which was common for humans who lived alone, would it not be logical to pick a more intelligent and amicable species, such as a canine?

Sarek extended his hand, seeking a distraction from the sound of muffled footsteps and fabric fluttering on the other side of Amanda’s bedroom door. The cat sniffed it before nudging it with the top of its head. Sarek tried to scratch it behind one ear—a gesture he knew most quadruped mammals enjoyed—but the cat recoiled and bounded away, choosing to instead glower at him from under one of the dining chairs.

“He’s a bit temperamental,” Amanda’s voice nearly startled him. She stood by the mirror in a soft, long-sleeved burgundy dress with matching tights. The dress was not much longer than the towel she had been wearing earlier, especially as she raised her arms to massage her hair with a smaller towel draped around her head and shoulders. Sarek realized then that he had never interacted with Amanda outside of professional attire. She looked younger in casual clothing.

“I do not mind waiting while you dry your hair,” he said, turning his body to look away, straight at the black console screen. He could not imagine it would be comfortable to have wet hair given the chill that had descended over the region, and moreover wanted a moment to process this increasingly jarring encounter.

Amanda smiled. “I prefer to dry it naturally. It’s healthier.” She approached the couch and Sarek caught a fresh scent not unlike the clementines on her table.

She sat beside him because there was no other seating in her small apartment, aside from the chairs that would place her awkwardly behind his back. Though they left a careful distance between them, Sarek still found himself sitting straighter and shifting to press into the opposite corner of the couch. “Did, uh, something happen at the Academy?” Amanda asked finally.

“No.” He watched a stray trail of water escape from under her earlobe and follow the ligament curving down her neck and into her clavicle. He trained his eyes back to her face. “I am here on a personal errand.”

“Oh,” she said in a high pitched sound not unlike her cat’s call. “W-What can I help you with?”

“I was hoping you might accompany me somewhere. There is a sight I would like to share with you in the hope that you will find it enjoyable.”

Amanda’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you… asking me out?”

Sarek titled his head. “The destination is outside of this apartment.”

She chuckled. “Never mind. Well, I suppose I’m not really busy tonight. I don’t see why not.”

“We may leave whenever you are ready. I might suggest an outer garment. The temperature tonight will be colder than your current attire can offer you protection from.”

“Okay,” Amanda licked her lips and began to stand, but hesitated and turned back to him. “Why?”

“Specify?”

“Why are you here?”

“To inquire whether—”

“Sarek. You understand my question.”

Sarek paused before continuing quietly, “I do not know. I had wished to respect your desire to remain apart, however strange your reasoning may have been. If you are indeed, in your own words, ‘in love’ with me--”

Amanda flushed and squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh God, please forget about that.”

“I have a perfect memory.” When she did not reply, he continued. “I value your companionship. To speak frankly, the time I have spent with you resulted in the most enjoyable interactions I have had in many months. They are both productive and pleasant. Despite your desire to sever our relationship, I find it highly illogical discontinue such a positive affiliation.”

Amanda laughed and squeezed the towel at her neck. “How are you so kind and so inconsiderate the same time? You just don’t get it.”

“Then please explain in terms that I will understand.”

“This is so humiliating,” Amanda rolled her eyes before settling them on her lap. “If we continue to see each other, my affection will only grow, and my desire to have it reciprocated will begin to overshadow my satisfaction in the current state of our relationship. I will begin to want things that you can’t provide.”

“It is impossible to determine what I am able to provide without making any requests.”

Amanda smiled. “As far as I know, no Vulcan has ever provided the things I might want.”

“Is it not in our nature to grow as a species with each new experience? Is that not the purpose of our societies’ interchange?” Sarek paused. “That is why I chose this profession—to aid in the mutual enrichment of our two worlds.”

“While that is all right and noble...” Amanda looked up and leaned forward, letting the towel slide completely off her head and drop limp around her shoulders. “I don’t think we’re really talking about the same things.”

Though he preferred that Amanda be clear and upfront with him as to avoid any miscommunication, Sarek was neither dense nor naive. He knew what Amanda was admitting in confessing her affections for him, and in theoretical terms, what humans looked for in such a relationship. He was unsure if he could reciprocate the emotional aspects of this—even if he wanted to, he hardly had the time to perform any investigation given his current obligations, and he was sure he would not be supported by his Vulcan peers; though interspecies relationships were no longer prohibited or condemned, it would certainly be considered unseemly for a political figure to be involved in one.

However, he was not blind to the other aspects of her want. He saw her eyes probe him in the same ways he could not help but scrutinize her. In this very moment, her eyelids became minutely heavier in their proximity and as he looked from her ears to her neck, to the shape of her chest and waist, and back up to her face, one of his eyebrows quirked up slightly. “If you are referring to sexual desire, it would be dishonest of me to deny any curiosity.” Sarek’s sharp ears heard Amanda’s breath catch. Her lips parted slightly and Sarek was certain she was exuding some kind of pheromone in her citrus scent because his body became rigid all of a sudden and his mouth turned quite dry.

Amanda stood up abruptly, laughing and shaking her head. “I don’t even know what to do with that information.” She walked around the couch and back towards the hallway. “We’re… we’re just going to table that for now,” she rubbed her forehead. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sarek nodded. He felt equally unbalanced by their privacy and proximity. He could not be sure what he had just propositioned. As soon as she was a safe distance from him, he began to regret his admission. The cat continued to gaze at him accusingly from under the chair. For the first time since the weather had turned, Sarek welcomed the cold air.

* * *

It was dark by the time they arrived at the temple. The ride had been excruciatingly silent, with Amanda staring out the opposite window and Sarek facing forward, forced to spend the entire journey listening to her breathing.

The transport dropped them off at the vantage point at which he stood with Sirak earlier that day. He heard Amanda gasp. “Wow.”

A bewildered expression lit her face. “Death, Peace, and Life.”

The turmoil that had plagued Sarek during their separation became slowly placated by the smile stretching across her face, dimpling her cheeks.

“Can we go closer?” Amanda asked without tearing her eyes from the statues, tugging at his sleeve like a child.

Sarek surprised them both by taking her hand. The warmth between their fingers was pleasant in the evening chill and there was nobody to witness or question the action. Amanda looked up at him once before returning his grasp without a word. They helped each other climb into the construction pit. With a quick facial scan, Sarek led them into the fenced site. The foundation was completed, but not yet buried. They climbed some rudimentary platforms to reach what would become the ground floor. The construction drones continued to work around them, occasionally redirecting when their sensors picked up Sarek or Amanda’s bodies.

“They’re massive!” Amanda cried, releasing his hand and leaping forward to the effigies’ feet. She exhaled. “I’ve always admired how harmoniously Vulcans are able to combine logic and religion. For humans, the two concepts always seem at odds.”

“It is not illogical to believe in the unknown. Our knowledge of the universe is very limited. It would be unreasonable to deny the possibility of greater forces.” Sarek craned his neck and took a few steps back, watching statues’ heads press into the black night. “There is so much we have yet to discover.”

Amanda traced her finger gently into the groves of some carved script on Death’s hemline. Sarek watched her outline, a slim shadow in the dark. He took a step forward and reached out, tracing a finger tentatively along the curve of her waist with the same delicacy Amanda’s own hand applied on the statue. She shivered slightly and turned, her damp hair shimmering in the surrounding streetlights.

Life, to Sarek, was a constant search. Growing up on Vulcan, he sought new horizons, in his career on Earth, he sought greater understanding. In his home and his mate he had sought stability, and in his travels, he sought enrichment. And yet, there were very few instances in which Sarek believed that he had truly found something.

When Amanda faced him that night—her eyes, the shape of her lips, the sound of her voice as she spoke his name so quietly that only he and the Gods could hear—Sarek was struck with the realization that he had found something profound, though he could not find the words to describe it.

The first beep caught Sarek’s ear, the second his attention. By the third beep, Sarek realized what he was hearing, on the fourth he called Amanda’s name, and at the fifth he pushed her to the ground and covered her small body with his. What followed was a deafening sound like thunder inside his skull, and after a chaotic series of cracks and bangs, all could see was dust, fine and white like snow, and then nothing.

 


	13. nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are only a few people reading, but I'm happy as long as there's even one :) this chapter is a bit dry, so please bear with me!

The hearing was small and private. In cases of misconduct, Starfleet found it appropriate to employ discretion above all else, especially before a verdict was reached.

The room’s occupants were the following: four Starfleet officers from varying backgrounds who served as a jury, Admiral Barnett (the head of the Starfleet Academy Board), and a group of witnesses who would be called to testify in Spock’s case - Nyota, Cadet Valdez, Cadet Zh’avishtith (Cadet Valdez's Andorian partner), Commander Nichols (a fellow officer in the communications department, as well as Nyota’s thesis advisor), Cadet Gaila (Nyota’s roommate), and Captain Pike—to Spock’s dismay, Sarek also sat in the very last row of the small lecture hall the hearing was being conducted in, watching him intently.

Admiral Barnett read the charges as “Academic Misconduct, Fraternization, and Assault”. For the past week Spock had been suspended from both teaching and military duties, and spent hours meditating on everything he read in the notification message. The severity of the accusations were far greater than he had anticipated. If the jury did not rule in his favor, he would be court martialed. He knew that a single misstep would result in him being stripped of his rank and permanently removed from Starfleet.

“In layman’s terms,” Admiral Barnett concluded, “Commander Spock is being charged for counts of fraternization with and abuse towards the Cadet Nyota Uhura, and for using his position as her instructor and superior officer as coercion.”

Spock dared to rest his eyes on Nyota for only seconds before nodding. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, her eyes flickering with what Spock knew to be rage. He was certain that she was not the source of these allegations. This was confirmed shortly after when Admiral Barnett called the first witness:

“I first noticed it at the beginning of the summer, in the training center locker rooms,” Cadet Valdez said, standing before the jury. “Someone was hurting her. She had a bruise the size of a baseball on her neck, and smaller bruises on her shoulder blades. When I asked her about it she brushed me off. I didn’t know then who it could have been.”

“And what made you believe that it was Commander Spock?”

“I saw them together. Several times. Which was not unlikely, given that they worked closely the previous semester—she was his TA. But what heightened my suspicions was when I saw them both at the Grand Canyon one evening.”

“Were they together?”

“Not quite. But it was a remote, difficult hike—not usually made by a single person alone. I saw Cadet Uhura first. She was upset. I encountered Commander Spock shortly after. He was clearly in pursuit of her, but he was evasive when I tried to ask him if he had seen her. What could they both have been doing there alone? It was too much of a coincidence.”

“Did you report this then?”

“Not immediately. It’s a pretty serious accusation to make. I asked around some acquaintances in the communications department first and everyone reported similar things—that the two were much friendlier than most student and faculty. There were even some jokes, but nothing serious given Commander Spock’s… well...” She glanced at Spock for a moment before looking at her hands. “Well, because he’s Vulcan. Who would accuse a Vulcan of something like that?”

“Dismiss that last statement,” Admiral Barnett interrupted. “Please keep your answers to the facts, Cadet.”

Cadet Valdez’s face colored slightly. “Right, sorry. Well, they were seen out eating and drinking together, which seemed a bit more than professional. She spent most of spring semester in his office, even when she wasn’t working as his TA. Even after hours. After hearing all this, I thought that it had to be more than a coincidence… and when Tela told me what she saw… I filed a complaint hoping that someone would prove me wrong.”

“Do you have anything else to add?”

“No, Sir.”

Cadet Valdez resumed her seat quickly, refusing to look at either Spock or Nyota. Hearing her testimony, Spock could not fault Cadet Valdez for moving forward with this case. Had he been in her position, he might have done the same. He and Nyota had been unscrupulous, and naive to believe that there would be no repercussions. The fact of the matter was that Nyota had sustained injuries because of him, she had been upset because of him, and knowing that there may be consequences, they did indeed meet while she was his student this semester, and had interactions that could undeniably be considered fraternization.

By the time Cadet Zh’avishtith took the stand Spock was feeling jabs of anxiety pushing at consciousness. This, of all the ways he could have been court martialed, would be the most dishonorable.

“In your own words, can you describe the incident you witnessed in the locker rooms on the afternoon of July 11, 2257.”

“Well,” the Cadet began in a faint Andorian accent. “I had been taking a shower after my training routine—a cold water shower, which I enjoy from time to time—when I heard an altercation of sorts in the locker room.”

“From the shower?”

“My hearing is slightly better than typical human abilities. And moreover, it was not quiet. I heard the sound of lockers rattling, like someone was being shoved into them.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Not quite. But I left the shower shortly after to investigate and saw Commander Spock entering the hallway between the shower rooms and locker room. When I turned into the row of lockers to retrieve my belongings, I saw Cadet Uhura standing there, leaning against the lockers. She didn’t appear to be occupied in any task besides that. However, when she saw me, she quickly opened her locker and resumed her routine. As the locker room had no other occupants, and I did not hear the door open or shut, I could only conclude that Cadet Uhura and Commander Spock were the source of the sound I heard.”

“What makes you believe that this was not a typical encounter? The sound of a locker door shutting, perhaps?”

“It was not so clean. The sound was rough, violent. It was alarming.”

“I also see here that you were with Cadet Valdez during the encounter at the Grand Canyon. Can you describe that instance in your own words?”

“We had decided to take the transporter up that night, rather than hike. Having only lived in urban areas of Earth, I had not yet seen its view of the night sky. We wanted to have a starlit picnic. When we materialized in the room, Cadet Uhura was on standby to transport back to the visitor’s center. She was upset, indicated by her furrowed brow. When we tried to greet her, her response was brief and slightly choked. As though she was holding back tears.”

Spock did not want to look at Nyota. Regardless of the circumstances, he was ashamed to have upset her in such a way. Listening to the cadets’ reports, Spock could not help but feel that he had only brought her grief in their brief time together.

“And did you see Commander Spock?”

“Yes. On the path leading to the vista we planned to picnic at, we saw Commander Spock, walking quickly towards us. He expressed body language and curt replies that indicated haste and an unwillingness to answer our questions.”

With that, Cadet Zh’avishtith was dismissed. Spock felt slightly calmer. This could not reasonably be considered irrefutable evidence; there was far too much speculation and room for doubt.

“Given these two cadets’ testimonies, the disciplinary department began investigating Commander Spock. While their reports alone were not adequate evidence for a hearing, we do not take unprofessional conduct or the mistreatment of cadets by an officer lightly. We will present, in chronological order, what was found in surveillance and correspondences between Commander Spock and Cadet Uhura.”

Spock sat straighter. He glanced at Nyota and her expression mirrored the dread that was threatening his mind.

The first video was not what Spock expected. It was footage from this past winter, before the holiday break. It showed Spock crossing his office to where Nyota was asleep on the couch. He knelt down and cupped her cheek with his hand. There was no audio to the footage, so they could not hear the conversation which explained that Spock was only adjusting her position as to prevent discomfort later. They could only see Nyota waking and Spock continuing to kneel before her for their exchange. Though the interaction was innocent enough, Spock saw now how there was something off about the gentleness of his touch and how his palm lingered a moment on her cheek after she woke.

The second interaction was from footage Spock had hoped would never be examined. At sunset, Spock leaning over Nyota’s desk in his office, reading something on her PADD. The angle of the camera left Nyota partially obscured by his body, so when he leaned forward to kiss her, it was difficult to determine whether she had leaned in as well. The only saving grace of this video was that it was taken while she was his TA, not his student, which would not put him in charge of any direct performance evaluations.

There was more footage of them kissing on the quad from May, after the semester’s end. Spock tried to keep the shame from his face, and did not once hazard a look at his Captain or father.

Video from outside of the cadets’ quarters showed Nyota, apparently running from him, clearly upset. He pursued her in a brisk pace, and when they reached the stairs, she fell. From the angle of the video, taken from the doors before them, it was not clear whether Spock had physically interfered in her gait to cause her to fall. He saw her back facing the building, him kneeling before her, his actions obscured.

There was footage from the hallway outside of Spock’s quarters, where Nyota’s profile could be glimpsed briefly past her scarf. The next was them walking through the Grand Canyon transporter room one after the other, the two cadets passing in between. Then it referenced the cameras in the training facility, showing them entering the locker room in quick succession and Nyota emerging alone briefly after.

There were a smattering of other questionable video footage of them alone from the period they had spent together between spring and summer semesters. Snippets from their email correspondences that might allude to a more than professional relationship were also presented.

Spock felt exposed and raw. Nothing had ever been private—none of it could really be considered theirs. Their entire relationship belonged to Starfleet, and he could not even begin to explain its significance to the steely-eyed officers that sat witness, as he hardly understood it himself.

Commander Nichols was called to be questioned after the video footage.

“You worked closely with both Cadet Uhura and Commander Spock, correct?”

“Yes. I consulted with Commander Spock on several occasions during the semester he spent working on the universal translator project in Communications, and I am Cadet Uhura’s thesis advisor.”

“Thesis? Cadet Uhura is not yet in her final year.”

“Correct. However, she was highly recommended by a trusted colleague, and after meeting with her, I approved an early start.”

“By whom was she recommended?”

Commander Nichols bit her lip. “... By Commander Spock. Early last year.”

“In your interactions with them in the past winter and spring, did you notice any behavior that could be termed misconduct?”

Commander Nichols’ eyebrows drew in. “To term it misconduct would be a stretch. I did notice that they were quite close. When I asked Commander Spock, he asserted that they were ‘friends’. Which, while unusual, isn’t unheard of. Especially since Cadet Uhura is so mature and Commander Spock is, well... quite young, actually. Especially for an officer. Not much older than Cadet Uhura, in fact.”

“Did you notice any interactions that might exceed what might be considered friendship?”

“I mean… well. There was a sort of tension between them sometimes. Romantic tension, that is.” She said the last sentence quickly. “Anyway, I asked Commander Spock about it directly. He denied it.”

“Was that before or after this incident?” The admiral pulled up the footage of them kissing in his office again, timestamped in the corner.

Commander Nichols gazed at the screen for a long moment, then at Spock, before saying, quietly, “After.”

“Did you ever see Cadet Uhura express signs of fear or anxiety with regards to Commander Spock?”

“On the contrary, he seemed to always put her quite at ease.”

“Did you feel that Commander Spock’s assessments of Cadet Uhura were exaggerated or at all contradictory to her actual performance, while they were student and teacher?”

“Absolutely not. He gave her only glowing recommendations, which were fully supported by her performance. She has never been given undue praise. She is an exceptional cadet.” She smiled as she said this.

“And did you ever observe signs of Commander Spock inflicting physical or emotional harm on Cadet Uhura?”

“Never.” This reply was instantaneous, without hesitation, delivered while looking Admiral Barnett directly in the eye.

“Thank you, Commander. You may be seated.”

Cadet Gaila, who had been summoned from off planet to participate, was surprisingly calm, given her typical exuberance. She was asked various questions about what she had observed, if she had ever seen Cadet Uhura suffering harm, all of which she responded to clearly. Nothing she said could be conclusively termed as incriminating. Cadet Gaila, though at times outspoken or inappropriate, was quite sharp. She seemed to be on their side, and knew exactly what not to say. Spock could not help but speculate that she had been to a hearing of this nature before.

“Actually,” she said at the conclusion of her testimony, “I encouraged it. They are well-matched, Sir, if you don’t mind me saying. They are very alike, and I know they would never allow it to get in the way of performance or conduct. I have known Nyota since our first year at the Academy, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her happier. I don’t think they should be punished for seeking companionship.”

Admiral Barnett looked into her determined expression for a moment before nodding. “Thank you, Cadet. That will be enough.”

Nyota looked like she might hug Gaila, but settled for grasping her fingers tightly as Gaila resumed her seat beside her.

Nyota was called up next. She stood before them, her hands pressed tight against her sides.

“Cadet Uhura, were you and Commander Spock engaged in a romantic or sexual relationship?”

Nyota sighed before saying. “Yes. Romantic.”

“Was it sexual in nature?”

Nyota hesitated. “Um. Kind of?”

“Please clarify.”

“I mean, we did have… exchanges but the relationship was never…” she cleared her throat. “Uh, consummated.”

“Did this relationship begin while you were under his watch, either as student or assistant?”

“No.”

“Your testimony contradicts this video evidence.”

“That was a… one-off incident. A slip-up, so to speak. If you notice, there is no other evidence of a relationship of that kind until after the semester's conclusion. And Starfleet does not prohibit relationships between personnel if the higher ranking officer is not directly responsible for the other. And exceptions have been made in cases of long-term assignments, deep-space travel, or when there are no conflicts of interest.” Diligent as ever, Nyota had done some research.

“Yes, but those exceptions never involved a cadet. And an entanglement between a cadet and instructor of Starfleet Academy certainly involves a conflict of interest.” Admiral Barnett firmly dismissed her last statement. Nyota looked down. “Did you feel as though you were coerced in any way? Were assignments, assessments, or recommendations ever held as collateral in any aspect of your personal relationship?”

“No. Of course not. Whatever… happened between us was completely separate from our professional work.”

Not entirely accurate. Their personal relationship was inextricably tied to their professional one, as many of the pleasant interactions they shared involved intellectual discourse. However, it had not affected their professional or academic standing, as far as Spock could tell. Though he no longer trusted himself; perhaps he had never truly been impartial when it came to Nyota, even before their relationship had crossed certain lines. It would be illogical to dismiss that possibility.

“Did Commander Spock ever physically harm you?”

Nyota did not answer right away.

Admiral Barnett’s voice softened. “You may speak openly, Miss Uhura. There will be no consequences for you, and we will do everything in our power to protect you, should you feel endangered in any way.”

“No, no. God, no. I’m not afraid of Spock.” She paused, before amending quickly, “Commander Spock, that is.”

“And were the injuries described by Cadet Valdez inflicted by Commander Spock?”

“Well… yes.”

“You have contradicted yourself again, Cadet.”

“It… it’s not like that.”

“If you could clarify.”

“It was…” Nyota’s face was slowly turning a warm shade of violet. “Consensual. Just… consensual inflictions.”

A brief, awkward pause passed, during which everyone in the room tried their best not to make eye contact with anyone else, until the admiral nodded and said a curt, “I see. And emotionally—”

“No.” Nyota interrupted. Admiral Barnett sat back and studied her. “It was mutual from the start. In fact, at times I may have insisted where Commander Spock showed restraint. At the Grand Canyon, for example. I was upset because he told me that we couldn’t see each other. He always has my best interest in mind.” She took a breath. “Sir, I… if you were to put Commander Spock on trial, then you would have to do the same for me. I am equally, if not more, complicit.”

Spock’s grip on his own hands tightened. Would there have been no consequences, he might have leapt up in an effort to stop her. If his career should end on this afternoon, the last thing he wanted was for hers, so fresh and promising, to be dragged down with it. There would be no sense in that.

The jurors exchanged glances now, though they remained straightfaced. A few jotted down notes. Finally, Admiral Barnett said, “Thank you, Cadet. Unless you have something more to add, we have no further questions.”

Nyota nodded and scurried back to her seat. She did not look at him once and he was glad of it. He was certain that his face did not remain nearly as expressionless as he was endeavoring to keep it—not to those who truly knew him.

It was his turn to stand before the jury at last. Their questions were brief and to the point.

“Did you initiate an intimate relationship with Cadet Nyota Uhura?”

Spock kept his answers just as brief. “I did.”

“Was this relationship concurrent with your time as her instructor during summer semester of the previous year?”

“It was not.”

“With her time as your teaching assistant during fall and winter semesters?”

“Only during that instance that Cadet Uhura already stated was a singular incident.”

“The kiss in your office?”

“Yes. While we did show a lapse of judgment, we agreed not to speak of it until the semester’s conclusion.”

“Did you ever threaten or offer to alter your assessments of her performance, or recommendations for future assignment based on her compliance with this relationship?”

“I did not.”

“Did you ever harm Cadet Uhura, physically or emotionally? Or mentally by way of psionic suggestion?”

“It is against the Vulcan way to utilize our abilities to harm another living creature.” He paused, and consciously pushed away the impulse to avert his eyes in shame. “I did, however, inflict the injuries described by Cadet Valdez.”

“The ones she described as ‘consensual’?”

“Correct.”

“Did you injure her in any other context?”

“I did not.”

“Did you discontinue your relationship with Cadet Uhura when you became her instructor once more this current semester?”

“To the best of my ability.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There were... a few lapses.”

“The Grand Canyon?”

“Yes.”

“The locker room?”

“Yes.”

“And the transmissions you exchanged?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever allow your history to affect your assessments of her performance in class?”

“If you mean to suggest that I may have given her higher marks, I can inform you with certainty that she would not need me to; she excels on her own, and has no need for favoritism. This is evident in her exams and assignments, should you wish to verify.”

“So you were able to remain completely objective regarding Cadet Uhura?”

Spock hesitated. “Complete objectivity is impossible. Especially once a personal relationship has been established-—”

“Semantics aside, Commander.” Admiral Barnett interrupted.

“I cannot say with certainty that I have remained objective, given my… affections. Though I have made every effort to do so, it is impossible for me to assess my own subconscious.”

“Are Vulcans not known for their unparalleled mental discipline?”

“They are.” Spock swallowed. “However, I am half human.”

There were no questions beyond that. Spock returned to his seat, debased. After a lifetime spent training his Vulcan side to dominate, his humanity had the last word. What a stubborn, selfish species.

“Does anyone have additional comments or questions before we allow the jury to deliberate?” Admiral Barnett surveyed the room.

“Sir.” Captain Pike stood up, hands clasped behind his back. “Permission to speak as Commander Spock’s commanding officer.”

The admiral nodded. “Granted.”

“I leave it up to the jury to determine the nature of this relationship given the testimony—should they find Commander Spock guilty of any counts of assault or mistreatment of Cadet Uhura, by all means, he should be court martialed.” He gave Spock a stern glance that revealed nothing of his own stance on the matter before continuing. “However, should the jury find him guilty of only a brief, mutual fraternization, I would implore them to consider what is at stake not only for these individuals, but also for Starfleet as a whole. Cadet Uhura has outperformed most of her peers at the Academy and is sure to have a promising future ahead of her. Commander Spock has accomplished more in his few years of commission than many could boast in their entire careers. Neither have a single speck on their records prior to this. And yet, as distinguished as they are, they’re still very young. Though Spock outranks Cadet Uhura by a longshot, as Commander Nichols pointed out, they’re nearly the same age.” He looked to the jury and said “Consider your own youth. Haven’t we all, at one time, been young, in love, and irresponsible? We never had consequences because none of us made Commander in our twenties. I can tell you with confidence that if we end Commander Spock’s career now, we will rob ourselves of the best first officer in the ‘Fleet.”

A long silence passed before Admiral Barnett dismissed the group. Sarek had managed to disappear before Spock had even exited the room. Captain Pike joined his side as the others dispersed into different hallways, in no mood for conversation.

“Thank you for your statement, Captain.” Spock said at last. He knew that Captain Pike was going above and beyond his own duties.

“Don’t thank me, it won’t happen again. I expect better from you moving forward.” Spock opened his mouth to apologize, but Captain Pike raised his hand, a small smile crossing his face. “You surprised me, Spock. I’m not sure I’ve heard anything more surprising—you, of all people, involved in a romantic scandal. Most days, I forget you’re human at all. Suddenly, you’re just a kid like the rest of them.” He laughed. “I may actually be relieved. That big brain of yours would go to waste if you never did anything unexpected.”

Spock was not sure whether he should be offended. He could only be thankful that Captain Pike was not more disapproving. He was spared a response when they heard a commotion coming from the restroom at the end of the hallway. Captain Pike’s smile dropped. Spock followed him down the hallway.

They could hear Nyota’s voice before they entered, slightly raised as she said, “You should have minded your own business.”

Cadet Valdez’s voice, thick with tears, choked out, “I’m so sorry! I really thought he was hurting you.”

“Nyota, that’s enough.” Cadet Gaila in surprisingly hushed tones.

Captain Pike walked in saying, “Cadets!” in an intonation Spock recognized from Pike’s own tenure as a Starfleet instructor.

By the time Spock had entered, all four cadets were at attention with their hands at their sides, Cadet Valdez standing close to her girlfriend and sniffling.

“Cadet Uhura, Cadet Gaila—unless you have more business here, I suggest you move on.”

“Yes, sir.” They mumbled in unison. Spock and Nyota’s eyes met briefly as she exited, and he saw a deep loss in her expression. Regardless of the outcome, things would never again be as they were. They had reached an ending, with no guarantee of resumption. In that moment, he felt that nothing would equal the one blissful evening he had spent with her, unaware of all the pain that would soon follow—his chest fluttering, her voice, softly imploring, “Call me Nyota.”

They gathered to hear the verdict, Sarek having appeared just in time to resume his place in the back row. One of the jurors stood and said, “On the count of Academic Misconduct, we find Commander Spock not guilty. Our investigation of Cadet Uhura’s records indicate that her performance in Commander Spock’s class aligns with her performance in all her others. Well done, Cadet. On the count of Assault, we find Commander Spock not guilty. We cannot move forward with such an allegation without confirmation from the victim. As Cadet Uhura denies that any abuse took place, we will have to honor her word. Lastly, on the count of Fraternization, we find Commander Spock guilty. It has been made clear by all parties that a romantic entanglement did indeed take place during times that involved a conflict of interest. However, we will not be moving forward with a Court Martial. WIth consideration given to both Commander Nichols and Captain Pike’s statements, we have concluded that such drastic measures will not be necessary. We will let Admiral Barnett determine appropriate punishment.”

The room released a collective sigh of relief. Commander Spock looked at Captain Pike, who shot him a subtle wink.

Admiral Barnett stood and declared, “Thank you. Commander Spock, as punishment for your indiscretions, you will not return to teach Interspecies Ethics this semester. You will be required to attend professional conduct re-training sessions and re-evaluated at the end of summer term to determine if you are fit to instruct any courses at Starfleet Academy moving forward. With consideration to both of your irreproachable records thus far and your age, which is unprecedented—you are indeed by far the youngest Commander in Starfleet history—we will overlook your relationship with Cadet Uhura, on the condition that you are to never be in the same class, that she should not have an academic relationship with you at all, including teaching assistant, research assistant, and the like, and you are not permitted to submit any recommendations for her assignment. It is not in our principles to interfere in the personal lives of members of Starfleet—when we grant you those badges, we also grant you our trust and respect. However, you are to avoid any appearance of favoritism, and act only with the utmost discretion. Do not make us regret this decision.”

Everyone shuffled out quickly, in no mood to celebrate despite the favorable outcome. Spock expected Sarek to be gone once more when he exited, but he was not. His father was waiting in the hallway, gazing out the window.

“Father,” he said stiffly. He knew there was no use in avoiding him; he was clearly here to speak with Spock and the situation demanded some semblance of a conversation.

“Admiral Barnett brought this to my attention. He did not want it to be a surprise, should the hearing conclude unfavorably for you.”

Spock nodded. He had nothing to say for himself. He had been humiliated in front of the last person he wanted to witness his weaknesses.

“I only wanted to pass onto you a piece of unfortunate news before I left.” Sarek continued. “Sirak, the one who had been priest of San Francisco’s Vulcan temple since its opening, passed away. I was on Earth to play at his funeral when I was told about your hearing.”

“He mentioned that you were acquainted.”

“The term ‘acquaintance’ is not sufficient. He was my friend.”

Spock did not know how to reply. This was the closest thing to sentimentality Spock had ever seen in his father.

“The funeral will be in three days at the temple. You may attend, if you wish.”

“Thank you.” Spock’s fists clenched of their own accord. “Father, I—”

“I will take my leave now.” Sarek turned his back. “I will send you a transmission with details about the funeral.”

Outside the building, Spock stood alone. Everyone had trickled out and away, but he lingered, watching darkness fall over campus. He felt acutely how close he had come to losing everything. Despite this, he could not have regrets. Sirak’s memories lingered in his mind, smoldering with the intensity of his loss. It had unwittingly rewired Spock’s priorities, turned his heart hot. He felt Nyota before he saw her. She emerged from the building alone and sat on the stairs beside him.

“I did not know you were still here.”

“I was hiding in the bathroom,” she replied with a chuckle. “I had a feeling you might not leave right away.”

“We should not be seen together.”

“No, we shouldn’t.”

Spock sat down beside her. The sky was bright with dusk.

“How would you like to move forward? I believe we have been given permission to do as we please.”

Nyota sighed. “It would seem that way, but…”

Spock tightened his jaw and nodded. “But we should not.”

“You were so close to losing so much. I don’t think I could live with myself if anything like this happened again.”

“It is not your fault.”

“I participated willingly, chose to ignore all the risks. But they weren’t my risks to take.” After a moment’s hesitation she reached between them and took his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Spock touched her cheek with his free hand. “Please, do not be. Of every experience I have had so far, this one is the most unique, the most unexpected. I should be the one to apologize. Despite my efforts to make you happy, I only caused you pain.”

Nyota shook her head. Her eyes glistened. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. We still had so much to learn.”

“Nyota…”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the glass queen. She held it between them. “Your chess set should be complete.”

“I do not want it to be complete.” Spock slid his hand down her jaw before releasing her face. He cupped her outstretched palm and closed her fingers around the chess piece. “My feelings have not changed. This remains yours.”

Spock knew by the way her brow wrinkled that she knew what the piece represented, though he could not say it again, not then. She inhaled sharply and smiled, blinking rapidly. “Okay. I won’t cry.” She exhaled and slipped her hand out from his. She stood and raised it in a Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Spock.”

Spock raised his own hand. “Peace and long life, Nyota.”

With that, Nyota wandered away into the sunset. Spock watched her until she disappeared into the trees with the sun. In the darkness, it felt like she might have just been an illusion.

 


	14. the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

Surprise! I haven't abandoned this entirely!

* * *

 

They were happy for exactly three days.

Subspace communications were scrambled by the weather. Sirak knew that the priestess he was meant to consummate with would know immediately that he had bonded with another, but as long as the temple could not contact him, nothing could be done.

In that storm, it was hard to know the time of day. Sirak slept deeply that night, and he could not tell what hour it was when Inira came to his hostel the next day. She was still a little bruised, soaked through despite her raincoat, holding a bent umbrella. “Come stay with me,” she said, and Sirak knew that this may be their only window of opportunity to think, to talk — to simply be with each other without the world watching — and so he would have been foolish to decline. He had already packed most of his things. Leaving with her was easy.

The first day they didn’t talk much. It was too fascinating for them both, the feeling of being bonded. Words were almost a hindrance. They could anticipate each other’s needs, understand each other’s feelings more intimately than they could ever explain in speech. There was little room for anything else between that.

Without asking after it’s recipe, Sirak prepared Inira’s favorite childhood stew from the ingredients in her kitchen, and without questioning the tradition so unlike her own, Inira allowed Sirak to prepare what would be their breakfast and lunch.

Together they brought all of Inira’s plants inside from her balcony so they would not drown in the rain, which fell at an angled trajectory that made the shelter of the balcony above hers meaningless. They made love on the wet kitchen floor surrounded by this dripping greenhouse, enacting a fantasy that neither of them could admit at the city park.

They lay there naked afterwards for a long time because it was something Sirak had never done before — simply lie next to someone. It was much more peaceful than he could have imagined: the sound of their breathing; the steady symphony of rain on every surface; the slow trickle of water from the plants onto kitchen tiles. It was a sound he would remember on every sleepless night following.

The questions came out slowly later, when it became unquestioningly nighttime. The power was out in this part of the city, and even the old building’s generator had failed. Inira lit candles and they sat on her bed.

“Are you going to be in trouble?” she whispered.

Every time she tried to probe that part of his mind, he shut her away. He was much more skilled in these techniques than she was, and had no trouble hiding what he wanted to remain secret. In the darkness, he relented. “Yes. Very much so.”

“Why?”

“I made an oath. I was never supposed to form any emotional attachment. Not to anything, let alone…”

“A person. An alien.”

“It is treasonous to our way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are not culpable.”

“I came to you.”

“I chose you.”

“Over what?”

“Everything. Nothing.”

“That’s too cryptic, even for you.”

He did not wish to tell her that he would have died. To reveal the truth of Pon Farr, even to her, would have been going too far. He had already betrayed so much. He decided firmly that she did not need to know. Instead, he kissed her. When their lips parted, he said, “Do not ask,” and she did not.

This time, he took care to give her unique pleasure that was not just his own. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. They tumbled, they were patient, and once or twice she laughed at his earnestness until he plunged deeper and choked her laughter with a gasp.

“You really don’t know how to do this, huh?” she said at one point, flipping him onto his back and pressing her palms into his chest.

“I have engaged in the activity on numerous occasions.”

“You could have had me fooled.”

“Perhaps not with the same intentions,” he admitted, lifting one eyebrow.

She smirked. “I suppose this is another kind of language.”

She began to move, and he inhaled sharply, before saying, “One that you appear to be particularly fluent in.”

She leaned forward, whispered against his cheek, “I’ll teach you,” and he felt so many emotions surge through his body that his mind fumbled to make its usual neat knots of them.

When they lay satiated and all of the candles were blown out, Inira asked, “Why priesthood, though? Even for a Vulcan, it seems like a lot.”

“I knew it was my calling from when I was young.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I did not have many choices. Or emotional attachments.”

“You’re being cryptic again.”

“I am an orphan.”

“Oh.”

“My parents were xenobiologists, like the one in my hostel. They were killed in an accident during one of their travels. Unfortunate, but statistically, these instances occur. I was raised by my grandparents until they passed when I was young. I joined the temple shortly after.”

“But there _must_ have been other options. I don’t see Vulcan society being that limited.”

“I enjoy the teachings of Surak. I believe in them. I am fascinated by the Old Gods. And I was singled out by my instructors as particularly well-suited for a life of detachment and discipline.”

Inira chuckled. “ _You?_ It hardly seems that way to me.”

“It is different with you. I do not know why.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

The room was pitch black, but Sirak felt her smile against his arm. “I won’t say it out loud. You’ll be embarrassed.”

Sirak considered insisting, but in that time, her breathing slowed and she was asleep.

* * *

On the second day, they rose early. It was as if their bodies understood that their time was limited and not to be wasted. While preparing breakfast, it was Sirak’s turn to ask a question, though he posed it as a statement. “A man lives here.”

“Lived. Past tense.”

“Not long ago.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You have two settings on your shower. The storage in your bathroom has masculine toiletries. The closet has empty hangers, but in the shelves, there are still some shoes that would not suit the size of your feet. There are types of herbal teas in your kitchen that you do not care for. And this bed —” he points with the spoon he was stirring with. “It is not a practical size for a single person.”

“How observant.”

“Have you involved me in some form of adultery?”

Inira’s voice turned cold. “Why are you asking? You can see my mind, can’t you?”

“I do not wish to invade your privacy. I would prefer to hear it from you.”

She sighed. “I ended it.”

“Because of me?” He placed a plate carefully before her.

“Yes. But maybe not for the reason you might hope.”

“Why then?”

Inira lifted her fork, bit her lip, and then set it down again. She stood up and crossed the tiny apartment. She opened the first drawer of her bedside table, pulled out a small black box, and rejoined Sirak at the table. She placed it between them.

He opened the box, which looked small encased in his long fingers. He stared at the glimmering trinket inside and snapped it shut. He put it back on the table. “Why do you show me this?”

“Doesn’t it look like a shackle?”

“It is rather small and lacking in reinforcements to shackle anything.”

“Metaphorically.”

“I believe it is meant as a token of affection. A promise.”

“A promise to be shackled.”

“You seem to be misinterpreting the intentions of such a gesture. Willfully, so.”

“I would never be able to leave this planet.”

“Why does matrimony preclude migration and exploration?”

“He was my professor at the university. Quite a bit older than me. Our relationship caused somewhat of a stir, actually. It seems I have a talent for scandal. He’s already done several tours with Starfleet, seen a lot of good people lose their lives out there. I’m sure he would find reasons for me to stay. Because he loves me. That’s why I returned it to him.”

“It is in your possession.”

She shook her head. “He insisted I keep it. That he would give me some space and let me think about it.”

Sirak looked around. “That is why he left.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How long ago?”

“Just before the storm.”

Sirak nodded slowly. His appetite had diminished. “I have never seen you wear it.”

“I only wore it for special occasions. I told him I was afraid of losing it, but… I don’t know.”

“Humans are strange. A partner in life should not cause such uncertainty.”

“I wasn’t so uncertain until I met you. And then it was like everything cracked open.”

They watched the rain. “How do you wish to move forward?”

“I can’t when I’m with you. I just want to stay here. I don’t know why.”

“I know why.” Sirak said after a long silence.

“Why?” Inira whispered now, her voice almost lost.

Sirak stood up and walked around the table. He lifted Inira from her chair and carried her to the bed. He sat her on its edge and kneeled before her. He kissed her ankles, her knees, lifted her dress over her head and kissed her bare stomach. He pressed his lips to her breasts, along her nipples, his tongue against her collarbone. He hoped he might memorize her body before their time was up. He felt acutely how fragile she was, how easily her body opened to his touch. If he was not careful, he could break her.

Their breakfast lay untouched on the table for hours.

When he pressed between her legs he did so with possession. He did not like to think that she might be meant for someone else — that he might be an invasive species disturbing their peace. He could not help but glance at the plants, sullen and soggy, taking up every available surface of the small kitchen. In the humid weather, they refused to dry and slowly turned everything around them damp. Over time the tiles would mold, the wood would rot, and all else would collect mildew. But still, Inira would not cast them out. They were beautiful, and she refused to let them die.

* * *

On the third day, Sirak woke to Inira’s tears. It was barely light out — just a wan gray sheen over the apartment — but he could see her trembling shape at the edge of the bed.

“Why do you cry?”

“Because I know that you will leave me.”

And he could not comfort her because it was the truth. He would have to face the consequences of their actions. Sirak took her face in both his hands and wiped her tears with his thumb. “Please, cease. I do not wish to cause you this pain. I do not wish to remember our time together in this way.”

“Come back to me,” she shuddered between her sobs. “Promise that you will come back.”

“I will. I will return.”

Even as he said this, Sirak felt a weight in his chest, as though he already knew that there was no ending for them.

There is a theory about consciousness — that it is not shackled to time the way our bodies are. That what we perceive as “present” may in fact just be a recollection, that it is impossible to know where in time our bodies exist. Sirak remembered this in that moment, because he was certain he could feel it already: the pain of this loss echoing through time, filling his body with an ache that he would never be rid of.

* * *

“Why have you been out of communication?”

“There was a storm. Subspace communications could not be transmitted from the current locale.”

Sirak spoke in a low voice, holding his PADD close in order to keep his surroundings ambiguous. Inira was asleep. The woman on the other screen was a priestess of his temple; one he knew well. She was his intended, for this bout of Pon Farr.

“You must know why I call.”

“I do.”

“You have committed an egregious treason. To your vows, to our way. To our species.”

“She does not know. I have not revealed to her about the fever.”

“At least you maintained this modicum of respect for your kind.”

“You must return to Vulcan immediately. Consider your mission failed. Your trial will commence upon your return.”

“I had no choice, T’Lar.”

“Do not speak my name. Do not do it the disservice of passing your lips.”

She was offended. Deeply, so. Sirak could not blame her. He had betrayed one of the core tenements of their tradition, as well as inflicted a personal humiliation upon T’Lar. In his silence, she looked down. “We have scheduled you on a flight in 4 Earth hours from your present time. Gather your belongings and arrive. I will transmit you the transport details.”

“The fever would have taken my life,” Sirak attempted one final plea. It was indecent of him, but he felt a small desperation crawl out of his chest that he could not ignore.

“Then you should have died.”

T’Lar ended the transmission abruptly, leaving Sirak in an eerie quiet. The rain had ceased at last.

Inira stirring now, blinking awake. “Sirak?”

“The storm has passed,” he said quietly.

She sat up. They both knew what this meant.

Sirak crossed the room and sat on the bed beside her. “You must allow me into your mind once more before we part. In these past days, we have created a bond that will endure, if I do not sever it myself.” He began to reach for Inira, but she pulled away.

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to.”

“The longer we allow it to remain, the stronger it becomes.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Sirak did not dare speak his fear out loud. They both knew the danger in his departure: that he may never be permitted to return. He reached for her again. “Please. You do not understand the power of this psychic connection. You will come to regret allowing it to remain, and I am the only one who can rid you of it.”

Inira held both his hands in hers. “I do not want to be ‘rid’ of it. Please.” She pressed her cheek into his palm. “I want to keep some piece of you.”

Sirak wanted to insist, but knew her will to be more stubborn than the time they had. He did not want to spend what was possibly their last moments together in argument. Instead, he kissed her, lay her back onto her bed, and spent their final hour lost inside her, their breath echoing loud without the rain to muffle it.

They would not see each other again for many months.


End file.
